


The River, The Woods

by jendavis



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Awkwardness, Character Death, Clint Needs a Hug, Crossover Pairings, Daryl Needs To Use His Words, Drama, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family Reunions, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Guilt, Hurt Clint, Hurt Daryl, Hurt Oliver, I'm Sorry, Internalized Homophobia, Life Model Decoys, Long, M/M, Oliver needs a hug, Road Trips, Saving the World, Slash, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 37
Words: 102,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint, Oliver and Daryl, after New York, after the Glades, after Woodbury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the Avengers, after Arrow season 1, and Walking Dead season 3. Also, there is now a playlist over [here](https://8tracks.com/jedavis/the-river-the-woods), if you're interested. :)

_This is going nowhere fast_ , Clint decides, trying to ignore the droplet of water he can feel crawling down the side of his neck. This supply-run-gone-sideways is probably the most action this town- or at least this sporting good store- has seen in months, but right now nobody's moving. At all.

Someone's going to flinch, eventually, or just get tired of the waiting, and the arrows are going to fly. He's really not intending on being the first to shoot, but he's not planning on getting shot first, either. The hangover he's been carrying is throbbing behind his left eye; it's not bad enough to mess with his aim, but it _is_ exhausting.

"What do you say we call it a draw?" His voice is startlingly loud; he has yet to hear either of the other two speak.

The guy in the green leather jacket, his arrow nocked onto the string of a recurve, it's intended trajectory set straight for Clint's chest, _has_ to be Oliver Queen. His hair's grown out, but word gets around, and so do intelligence files. Clint plays it close, though. Seeing as how the biker who's pointing a crossbow at Queen isn't twitching in the slightest, it might not matter anyway.

"Draw, my ass," the biker shakes his hair, also damp, out of his eyes with a scowl. He spares a quick glance at Clint out of the corner of his eye. Crouched low next to the overturned fishing lure display the way he is, he's the only one of the three of them with any sort of actual cover, and already, his eyes are back on his target. "Ain't a goddamn _draw_ ," he grumbles. "It's a goddamn Mexican standoff."

" _Nice_ ," Queen sneers at the biker. "Way to stay classy." He rolls his eyes, and it's impossible to tell if he's just goading the guy for fun, or just doesn't care.

In the second it takes to process that thought, Queen's eyes are burning into Clint's again. He's missed an opening, but then, he wouldn't have known what to do with it, anyway. The biker, to his credit, doesn't miss a beat, and his aim doesn't waver as he rolls his eyes right back at Oliver.

"Way to concern yourself with the _least_ important part of this situation, jackass."

He's got a point. Barring any sudden flinches, his bolt will probably hit the center of Queen's throat, no more than an inch above his collar, not that the biker needs to worry about the leather. The bolt is tipped with an arrow designed to slice through flesh and hide like it's nothing.

But _then_ where would they be?

Clint's tempted to shoot the both of them right now, just get this over with. He _knows_ how good Queen is, but the biker, who doesn't seem to care that Clint's gunning for him? There's just no telling.

It must be a testament to their ongoing humanity, or some bullshit, that when the crashing noise comes from the falling kayak stand two aisles down, the standoff is over, just like that.

By the time the familiar plod-drag-groan's audible over the rain pounding down outside the store's broken windows, they've all adjusted their aim.

At least the walkers are good for _something_.


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl glares down at the corpse. His bolt is sticking out of the walker's right eye, right where it should be. There are _two_ arrows sticking out of the left, and it's impossible, really, but one arrow had split the other, all the way down, like that fucking scene in Robin Hood. 

One of the guys actually _looks_ like Robin hood, shaggy hair, green leather and all. The other- the one Robin Hood had been aiming at, and who'd been aiming at Daryl in turn- looks like a soldier. He's got on this purple and black vest armor getup that doesn't look like it was meant to be worn with grubby jeans and red, raw eyes. More importantly, though, the guy ain't runnin' his mouth like some kind of idiot. 

It's a curious situation, running into bowhunters capable of making _that_ kind of shot, and Daryl wonders if he's the only one trying to puzzle it out. 

"Where'd you fuckers learn to shoot like that?" Sounds stupid, even to his own ears, but at least it's not the first one that had come to mind. _You guys been training to take out someone's last good eye, too?_

"The circus," the soldier says, and anyone else, Daryl would figure them for a bullshitter, but he's glaring back like he's expecting Daryl to make something of it, and the sneer he's wearing is just brittle enough to give him pause. He thinks about making a crack at him anyway. Instead, he raises his eyebrows at Robin Hood, whose nose wrinkles like he's covering a wince before he replies, "Desert island, you?" 

_You've got to be shitting me_ , Daryl thinks. At face value, this might actually be the first time he's been the most normal person in a group. For a second, when their eyes turn towards him, he considers lying, but he doesn't think he can top circuses or desert islands. And anyway, he honestly doesn't give two shits what these pricks think, so there ain't no point in dressing it up. 

"Hunting with my brother." 

\--- 

The Hells Angel's crossbow is old, well used and worn looking, but its bolt had flown straight, and the man holding it _still_ looks like the type to shoot out of spite. 

The soldier, on the other hand, he looks like a pro. His gear's not pristine, but it had probably been top of the line, back when production lines had still existed, and it's obviously well-kept. He seems more assessing than wary, more military- maybe even mercenary- than circus, and he's _definitely_ the one Oliver should be keeping an eye on. 

For a soldier, he doesn't have the demeanor of the men on the island, or even the ones he'd sometimes skirmished with after everything had gone to shit. But he _had_ split Oliver's arrow, straight down the shaft. Like the ten degrees difference in their position relative to the target had been nothing at all. 

Neither of these men are easy targets, and he _damn_ well knows that they're eying his gear the same way he's checking out theirs. 

Oliver watches the Hells Angel force his bolt through the back of the walker's skull before wiping it down. As he inspects it and loads it back onto his crossbow, Oliver glances instead at the soldier, trying to remember how to make small talk and thinking about asking him about that _impossible_ shot, he gets the second shock of the day. 

The man's grinning. And taking a picture of their arrows, sticking out of the walker's eye, with an actual _cell phone_. The flash is startlingly bright in the gloom. Outside, the sky is getting dark again. 

The Hells Angel stands, head swiveling back, startled by the shutter noise.

"The hell?" 

And just like that, all three of them seem to remember who they are, and what they _don't_ know about each other. Oliver and the biker raise their bows; the soldier raises his hands placatingly. His phone's in his left, and Oliver has to admit, it's a good misdirection, because his right hand's just managed to flip an arrow out of the quiver on his back, and his thumb's flipping a switch on the shaft. 

The biker is shaking his head in disbelief, irritation threatening to boil over into anger. "You have a _phone_? Who the fuck you plan on calling?"

Oliver, for his part, is more concerned about the tricked out arrow. 

The soldier shrugs, still smirking. "I'd be happy to tell you all about it..." He lowers his hands just a bit, but he's not letting go of the switch, which must be a pressure trigger of some kind. "Just be cool, yeah?"

The cue is obvious, and it's the best one the three of them are likely to get. The soldier's the one holding the trump, and Oliver doesn't trust the biker to see sense, so it's on him to lay down arms first. 

He doesn't set it down, but he does steps forward, holds out his right hand like they're all still civilized people. "Oliver Queen," he says, and pretends that he's not comparing the soldier to Malcolm Merlyn, or to the _other_ soldiers and mercenaries he's known. 

The switch is flipped in the other direction and the soldier is grinning again, like he'd just been proved right about something. "Clint Barton."

The Hells Angel shutters his wariness deliberately, but shakes Barton's hand easily enough. "Daryl." When he moves on to shake Oliver's hand, he says his last name like he's daring him to make something of it. "Dixon."

\---

Oliver and the biker, Daryl, wait for Clint to begin. He's having a rough time getting started, and seems to have lost his streamlined confidence of a few minutes ago. New cracks are starting to show, but everyone has PTSD nowadays. There's no point commenting on it..

"At the end, there, I was working- _am_ working with, I guess- a group called SHIELD." 

Oliver's head snaps up. He'd heard the odd rumor here and there, done a little research. He'd been on the island when New York had gone to hell, but by the time he'd heard about it, there hadn't been much to find that hadn't felt scrubbed clean. Felicity had refused to go any deeper, and Diggle had backed her up. Showing up on SHIELD's radar would've destroyed everything he'd been trying to do. 

"That's..." He can't quite remember. "Strategic Homeland Intervention... something?" 

Daryl smirks, like it's something disappointingly funny, and mumbles something about _...fucking black helicopter shit_ at the floor. 

Clint raises his eyebrows at him and shrugs. "That's actually...not too far off. Anyway, after New York... long story short, it kind of reverted back to the original charter. _Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate._ Whatever the fuck _that_ means anymore. They had us working security for a salvage crew trying to work their way into Atlanta so we could see what we could get out of the wreckage."

"Wreckage?"

"CDC. Building actually had a self-destruct, and someone triggered it." Oliver isn't ready for the depressing feeling Clint's words bring. He's supposed to know better than to hope by now, and he's only now realizing that he'd been doing it at all. "Only thing we got out of it was a name on a communications log we'd managed to recover, from several weeks before the walls came down. Dr. Milton Mamet. We managed to backtrack his transmitting location to Woodbury." 

Daryl's apparently heard enough, too, but his groaning irritation isn't what Oliver's expecting. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Remains to be seen, I guess," Clint admits. "State of affairs was so bad that this _rumor_ was enough for our director to send out a helicopter, which-" he pauses for a second, like he's choosing the words- "crashed. Our guys were still alive, after, and the cameras and sensors had still been transmitting. We got a facial recognition hit on the men who discovered the wreckage. Instead of helping, or even listening, their leader straight-up _executed_ our guys. Long story short, the powers that be didn't like the idea of the scientist working for the psychopath We were ordered to extract Dr. Mamet and bring him in. By the time we got down here, the place had been trashed, Mamet was long gone. Entire fucking thing was just. Pointless."

His eyes dart away when he says this last; there's a story there somewhere. Oliver knows better than to ask. 

Daryl, apparently, doesn't; his eyes cut up towards Clint again. "Where're your people?"

"Gone, three days ago. I had to put one of 'em down. The fucking psychopath did the other one just for fun." 

\--- 

"That shit you saw in Woodbury," Daryl starts, retrieving his bag from the floor where he'd dropped it before this had all started. "That was us. My people versus the Governor. Maybe some of it was for science, or whatever, but he killed people. Tortured 'em. Got off on turning folk against each other." 

Ain't no reason to tell 'em about Merle. He'd taken off hunting ten days ago because he'd been _sick_ of talking about Merle. Half the people said they were sorry about his death, the other half wanted to fight about the shit he'd done when he'd been alive, and Carol? Shit, she'd kept on pressing, telling him that maybe if he talked about it _himself_ , he'd feel better. Fucked if he knows what he's supposed to say about any of it. But between that and the knock-down drag-out he'd had with Glenn, had been enough reason to skin out for a while. 

Besides. This is the first time he's met anyone without his goddamn family name getting in the way. 

"He took hostages from my camp a while back, was how it started. We went in to get 'em." It sounds so simple, like that. Clean. "One thing led to another, and-."

"How large is your camp?" Oliver asks, and Daryl blinks, thrown by the jarring segue. 

"Don't honestly know the head count right now. Right before I came out to track the Governor, bunch of the Woodbury folks joined up. The ones who didn't want to fight." Clint's looking at him like he's waiting for specifics, and he's not even sure where to start. Merle, Rick, Andrea- they'd been the ones with all the goddamn answers through this entire thing. "I ain't been back in a week, and things were kind of fucked up when I left."

He doesn't bother to point out that things haven't gotten any less fucked up since, and, having no idea how he's supposed to say _what_ he's supposed to say next, he shrugs. 

The Governor's head, wrapped in plastic and shoved in his pack, makes the strap dig into his shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

Daryl had taken to aiming for right eyes ever since he'd first met the damned Governor, but the practice hadn't paid off until today.

The hard part had been taking the head off the body; necks, it turned out, were extremely sturdy things. He'd been left to stab, hack, even pry his way through to the back. It had been a completely joyless task, though he'd still been angry enough to carry it through. It had only lasted as long as it had taken to wrap it up in the plastic bags, and shove it in his pack. 

Afterwards, he'd just been drained. 

The Rick of two weeks ago would've still taken him at his word, but that had been before everything had started going south with the refugees. Locking horns with Glenn hadn't done him any favors, and the black eyes they'd exchanged hadn't solved anything either. Far as Glenn's concerned, Daryl figures he's screwed, there. Kid'd had his reasons- good ones, even- and he's got the camp's respect. And, far as he knows, _Glenn_ hasn't stormed off and left them to fend for themselves and the thirty new mouths to feed. 

Bringing back proof of death would make it a non-issue, wouldn't put him in the position of having to ask for their trust all over again in the first place. Now, though, standing in the back of the outfitter's with these two near strangers, he's lining himself up to prove wrong thing altogether, here: that Dixon blood is mean and monstrous. 

Best to get in front of it before it comes out some other way, though. Dixons might be monsters, but they ain't never been cowards.

He's acutely aware of their eyes on him as he crouches, setting his bow and his bag down and glancing up. Oliver's face is unreadable, but Clint is curious, and it's going to suck, in a minute, because a part of him's been enjoying this, up until now, and it's probably all about to go downhill. 

"Ah, look." His hands are on the zipper, and he meets Clint's eyes. "Was trying to ease into it, but... The Governor? I killed him a few hours ago."

"He got bit?" 

Oliver's voice is impassive, and Daryl could probably could lie. He shakes his head anyway, and Clint's scowling hard enough that Daryl can't bring himself to look anywhere but down at his own hands. Neither of them have drawn on him, yet, but nobody's saying anything. Slowly, he eases back the zipper, but he doesn't reach into the bag, doesn't open it. "I can prove it, if you want."

Oliver's gone absolutely still, but Clint nods. Daryl parts the zipper completely, pushing the fabric aside. Even knowing that the blue plastic bags are clean and dry, there's humidity or condensation or something on the surface; his fingers feel slimy and he wipes them on his shirt. He leans back so they can see; Clint's the only one of the three to actually look, staring for a long moment.

"That's him," he eventually says, rising to his feet and taking a few steps away before faltering, like he can't remember where he'd been going. 

Clint looks at Oliver, finds him staring into the bag, eyes wide, like he's scared or something.

"Don't worry," Daryl says, hoping like hell that he'd managed to wipe all the blood off of himself before he'd arrived here, that the rain had washed off what he'd missed. "I don't make a habit of this."

"Killing people or carrying their heads around in a bag?" 

Technically, it had been Merle's hand, and Glenn's bag. Far as he'd known at the time, it had been the last human part of his brother, and damned if he hadn't meant to bury all he'd had left of him properly.

"Neither." 

"Good." Oliver nods, but he doesn't take his eyes off of him. His expression gives away nothing.

"Gotta take it back to the others. So they know," he explains stupidly, ducking his head and moving to zip the bag shut again, disgusted with himself, but Oliver's crouching down on the other side of the bag, holding out his hand, telling him to stop. 

Unsure, Daryl looks at him straight, but Oliver's gotten over his shock now, and is studying the face through the clear blue plastic. His brow's furrowed, head cocking to the side for a better angle. 

Clint saves him the effort of having to make any more justifications, turning around to face them with his arms crossed. "Fucker deserved worse. You hadn't pulled it off, I would've." He even goes so far as to nod at Daryl with a half grin, and it's ridiculous how grateful Daryl is to receive both. 

But it isn't as startling as Oliver's next words, sure and steady as he's turning the pack for a better look. 

"And if neither of you had managed it?" He glances at both of them in bemused disbelief, now, and stands up. " _I_ would have. His name is Philip Blake, and I've been looking for him for months."

\---

"You're serious?" Clint rubs his face; he's already lost count of the tilts the world's taken, today, and he's rapidly losing the ability to deal with any of it. Daryl, too, is looking at Oliver like he's grown a second head, which seems a little overly ironic, given the circumstances. 

"Thought I was still tracking him, to be honest, when I got here," Oliver says, his eyes assessing them both before landing on Daryl. I'm guessing it was your tracks that pointed me in this direction. Where's the rest of him?"

"Roof of the Best Buy next exit over," Daryl replies, and it's almost funny, the way Oliver's nodding as if it makes perfect sense.

Oliver nods, opens his mouth to speak, but then swivels his head towards the window, same as Daryl's doing. 

The battery in his hearing aid must be starting to go, because Clint can't hear what it is that's caught their attention. The three of them ready their weapons and head towards the front of the store slowly, avoiding the narrow aisles, picking their way over the junk on the floor. Fanning out, they clear the store, all the way to the broken windows. 

"Just the wind?" Daryl's voice is only a little distorted, but still. It's unnerving as hell. The battery should be replaced sooner rather than later. 

"Maybe." 

They're going to be losing light, soon. Outside, the rain's stopped and the wind's died down, but it feels like it's only pausing. He follows Daryl outside through the window, scans along the front of the building, all the way down the strip mall. There's motion down at the other end. Another walker, maybe, but it's heading in the opposite direction, unaware of them. Scanning in the other direction, however, Clint's eyes fall deliberately short of the highway. He tells himself that he's experimenting with trust. He doesn't know either of these men, yet, but you've got to have an eye to take an eye. 

"Okay," he decides, distracting himself as quickly as possible. "All right. If we're going to be here for a while, we should set up a perimeter. Oliver. How much of this store did you manage to clear before I got here?"

"Came in through the back. The stockrooms and staff area are clear, doors are solid leading out the back and out into the store. We've made enough noise that anything else should've noticed us by now, if it's here."

"Still, not the best chance to take." If what he's saying is true, the only real weakness in their defense are the broken windows. "If we're sticking around a while, we should check everything again. And we might as well see what's left, here, while we're at it." Daryl and Oliver don't argue. "Unless anyone's got a preference, I'll take the middle and work back, Daryl, you go back along the south side, Oliver-"

He's already nodding, taking a few steps backward as he begins heading to the north wall, disappearing around the shelves. As soon as Daryl, to his left, is out of sight as well, Clint grabs the packet of batteries out of his pocket and surreptitiously thumbs his hearing aid out. So far, neither of the others seem the type to try taking advantage of the situation, but it's a weakness he's used to hiding. More concerning, honestly, is his dwindling supply of batteries. He's going to have to find a pharmacy soon. It's nothing to look forward to. Pharmacies hadn't been cheerful places _before_ the world went to hell, and they haven't improved since, but at least hearing aid batteries don't tend to be high on the average looter's shopping list. 

It's nice to be focusing on the routine. He's well versed in flicking the tab open, palming the dead battery, and reseating the new one. He's been doing it for years, can do it one-handed in the dark. A few seconds is all it takes. He drops the dead battery in the quiver as he takes out an arrow, not wanting it to ping on the floor when it's likely that everyone's on high alert. It only takes a few seconds, and his attention's back where it needs to be. 

Or it _would_ be, if it weren't for the fact that he's finding absolutely nothing. No walkers hiding in the women's clothing section, just some polo shirts, sports bras, that sort of thing. He's got more gear that's actually worth anything- or he _might_ , anyway, long as nobody else's found it- back in the truck. 

He's been avoiding the truck for a few days now, and if he stops to think about why- about the body barely buried by the side of the road, underneath more brush and gravel than actual _dirt_ , he's going to lose his shit all over again.


	4. Chapter 4

A head in a bag is all well and good, Daryl figures, but unless he lucks out hunting on the way back to the prison, scrounged supplies are probably the best peace offering he can make. The aisles that had once stocked dehydrated food and first aid kids are long gone, though he does manage to scrounge up a decent sized backpack that's only got a little rat shit on it, which shakes off easily enough. There aren't any tents, but the nylon rain covers sold separately could come in handy; he casts the boxes aside before stuffing them into the pack. There's a few cans of waterproofing spray, pressurized and flammable, though with the weather starting to turn towards winter, it might not hurt. 

It takes the better part of an hour, but eventually, Daryl makes it back to where he'd been heading when he'd first arrived: the hunting gear. Unsurprisingly, it's almost completely picked over. Anything that can shoot anything is long gone. Going by the comparatively healthy stock of cleaning supplies it's likely that whoever had gone for the guns hadn't had much appreciation for actually keeping the damned things from jamming. 

"You find anything good?"

Oliver raises a foot; he's got new boots on. "There are some others left, depending on your size. Socks too." He nods back to the north side of the store; his route had mostly gone through the footwear and children's area. "Not much I could use, but... your camp. Any kids there?"

He nods. "Got a few," he says, though the only one he knows well enough to picture in his head isn't even walking, yet. 

"Might want to take a spin through on your way out." 

"Women's department isn't completely ransacked yet," Clint adds as he makes his way towards them. His hands are empty. "Mostly summer stuff, but I'd rather find khaki shorts and ugly shirts than walkers."

Daryl's a little surprised that they're both making, well, not offers, exactly, but something. It makes him a little bit uneasy, but charity's easier when it's for someone else. He nods his thanks, though it feels like he's just taken on some sort of debt. 

But it's one he might be able to afford. He's got to go suck it up and go back to the camp either way. And now that he's thinking about it, with all the new mouths from Woodbury, a few extra hunters might not be a bad idea. 

"Ain't saying I can promise you anything," he stares at the floor so he doesn't have to look at them. Even though it seems like things might be heading this way anyhow, it ain't his place to be doin' this, and he knows it. "That scientist guy, if it's the one I'm thinking of?" He glances at Clint. "I think he might be dead. But someone back at the camp, they might know something. And I don't know what either of you've got goin' on, but if you're heading west..." 

The offer is met with silence; when he finally looks up, both of them are staring back at him. 

"How far is it?" Clint asks, after what feels like ages.

"Woodbury's about two and a half days," Oliver says, shaking his hair out of his eyes. It's not like it's some huge secret, but it's unsettling, this total fucking stranger knowing anything about it.

"Two, tops, if you stay south of Molena," Daryl clarifies, wondering all the while if he's giving away something important. The return trip will be shorter now that he's not winding back and forth, tracking the Governor's path. "Another few hours past it, half a day if we're avoiding it completely, to get to the prison."

"The prison?" Clint looks decidedly suspicious. Daryl wonders if Oliver is ever surprised by anything. 

"The camp. It's decently fortified, has a good line of sight. Roof over your head." It's dumb, the twinge he gets, feeling like he's got to defend it like it's the double-wide Dad had moved them into after Mom died. 

"What the hell," Clint sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. It sticks up at awkward angles. "I'm in." 

They both turn to look at Oliver, who looks back and forth between the two of them, then starts surveying the gray patch of parking lot visible through the store's front door. The sky's too gray and too dark to tell what the clouds are doing. "We've only got a few hours of daylight left, such as it is..."

He's not wrong, but there's shelter, here, even though the wind, when it picks up, still cuts cold and damp through the windows. "So we camp out here, leave in the morning," Daryl shrugs. It's uncomfortable, making plans this solid. He wonders if they'll have the chance to hold. 

"That's settled, then," Clint says, scratching his head. "This is good." It sounds forced, a little manic. Like he's trying to mean it. 

"Why?" Daryl asks, because sometimes, he can't stop being a sarcastic asshole for no good reason. 

Clint shrugs. "It'll give us some time to hear what Oliver, here, has been up to."

"I can't wait," Oliver says, only he's gritting his teeth and staring out the broken double doors. Daryl doesn't ask, but he's pretty damned sure he's contemplating just walking straight out through them.

\---

After deciding that the employee break room would be the better place to spend a night, they decide to dump the body on the sidewalk in front of the store. It won't work as a deterrent- the walkers don't care about other walkers so much, and anyone who's not armed to take on a walker probably _is_ a walker by now, but it'll give anyone walking by something to look at. Anyone looking at the walker probably won't notice the trip wire Oliver's rigging out of fishing line, lures, and the bells off of the front register's dog collar display. 

Clint's the one to haul the corpse into place, half behind the trash can by the door, and afterwards, his sense of duty is all used up. He's as empty as the bottle he'd drained yesterday afternoon. The only thing that's left is the knowledge that positioning the corpse had required more attention than he'd been able to spare the bodies of the last two people on Earth that he'd actually cared about. 

Natasha's in the woods, Phil's on the side of the road. Neither of them are buried under more than handfuls of branches, dirt and gravel, and neither one is more than five feet from where they'd fallen. 

He tries to shake the thought off before it gets a chance to take hold again, tries to focus on the practicalities. 

But the practicalities and the miseries are starting to converge on a single point, and even worse, it's apparently showing on his face.

"Everything cool?" Oliver's the one who asks the question as they walk back inside, picking their way towards the back of the store. Oliver doesn't know him well enough yet to know if his lack of answer means anything, so Clint pretends that he hasn't heard, and walks through the door marked 'Employees Only.' He squints against the stark glare of a lantern glowing too brightly on the table. 

Daryl's got the supplies he's managed to scrounge all gathered up on a table, taking inventory. He'd listened, earlier; he's got women's polo shirts, kids' clothes, even a few toys. Nothing of immediate use to anyone- which is why it had all been here in the first place- but he barely glances up at them before going back to regarding the meagre pile like he can will it into something useful. 

"Actually," he says to Oliver, and then Daryl, and the only reason he can let himself ask is that they're all beggars, here. "I've got a favor to ask both of you."

\--- 

Daryl doesn't speak as they cross the parking lot, and it suits Oliver just fine. They're heading out to the road because there's an SUV on the side of the road, and if they're very lucky, nobody else has found it yet. 

"You can't miss it," Clint had said, pointing out the broken-down truck from just behind the tripwire. He'd squinted into the sky over it like he'd been trying not to see it himself. "Black Explorer, pointed east." Daryl nods, watching Clint sideways. "The windshield's been shot out," Clint had added, taking a breath, "and there's a shallow grave about ten feet south of the driver's side that I just can't fucking look at right now." 

It's more than just broken down, it's shot all to hell. The front seats are covered in glass and blood, and Oliver can't stop himself from seeing the drag marks that lead to the side of the road, or the mound of debris that's not quite thick enough to hide the dull glint of a man's watch. When Daryl heads around to the other side, Oliver quietly kicks a little more dirt and gravel over it. It feels disrespectful, when he realizes what he's doing, only that's not how he's meaning it, and the glint's gone, at least. 

He's not sure why he'd thought there'd be any sort of identifying information in the glove compartment, and even less sure of his reasons for looking for any, but it doesn't stop him from trying. Old habits die hard. 

"Be straight with me, man. You two working together?" Through narrowed eyes, Daryl's been watching him search. 

Oliver shakes his head, not particularly caring if Daryl believes him, and closes the passenger side door. Glancing through the windows, he can see three duffel bags in the back of the truck, lined up neatly, and Daryl walking around the other side of the truck to meet him in the back.

He pretends not to notice Daryl's reflection, staring at the blood by the driver's side door, as he opens the trunk. When neither of them move to reach for the bags, he gestures at them. "Should we, ah..." 

Daryl glances up and meets his eyes like he's trying to gauge the proper response, then shrugs. Maybe he's just missing the question.

The first one is filled with bolts, arrows, bullets, guns and cleaning kits, along with gadgets that don't bear further inspection right now, and boxes of batteries. The second- and largest of the three- is filled with clothing, it looks like. Rain gear. Shirts and pants. There's a washer bag full of dirty laundry, some of it obviously belonging to a woman. Toiletries, and a first aid kit. A very _large, well-stocked_ first aid kit. 

It's a haul that could get anyone killed in a heartbeat, these days, and that's before taking the third bag into consideration. MRE's. A few cans of fruit. Bags of rice, bags of beans. Buried underneath are two large bottles; one whiskey, one vodka, both nearly full.

Daryl's still watching to see what he's going to do. And now Oliver's watching him right back, until Daryl shifts his stance, indicating two of the bags. 

"I'll grab these if you take the weapons," Daryl eventually suggests, and now _Oliver's_ the one wondering, absurdly, if this is a test. 

"Suit yourself," he shrugs. He'd lived for years without half the things in these bags. He doesn't need them, not enough to steal from the living. 

He's careful on the way down, though, to walk in front, and to telegraph every move. 

Behind him, he can hear Daryl kicking wet leaves and scuffing his boots on the parking lot pavement. It isn't a loud sound, but it's one he hadn't been making on the way up, when Oliver had been covering his six. 

He's broadcasting his position for Oliver's benefit, and it probably isn't meant to be as reassuring as it is. 

\--- 

Sitting on the cash register counter, Clint watches, his bow at the ready. By the time the two of them are ten feet inside the parking lot again, they're well within range, and the few cars strewn across the lot are sparse enough that covering both of them aren't going to be a problem. 

He sees better at a distance, and distance is sometimes everything. There's no concentrating on Natasha, now, or how she'd looked up at him with wide, angry eyes and reminded him that he'd _promised_ , while shoving her sidearm into his hands. There's no hearing the echo of the blast, bouncing off the back of the Walmart. There's no room to remember running all the way back to the truck, hoping like hell that Phil was able to read his mind like he sometimes seemed to, just so he didn't have to say the words out loud. There's no replaying how the windshield had shattered inwards, not out, or that Phil hadn't even moved to look at him. 

For twenty minutes, Clint can just watch, focus, do his goddamned job, and make sure the two people coming toward him arrive safely. 

By the time they're reaching stepping onto the curb in front of the store, he's managed to get himself back under control. 

\--- 

Daryl thinks that Clint's looking better, hopping down off the counter and taking one of the bags that Daryl's been hauling. 

"Sorry about that," he says. "And. Ah. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." They follow Oliver to the back of the store, set the bags down on the floor. 

"Hey, look." Clint sounds nervous, again, but "You guys did me a solid, so. Been thinking. More gear than I can carry means it's more gear than I need. And seein' as how the shopping excursion was kind of a bust, I figure we could split this stuff up. You'd be doin' me a favor."

Oliver's eyebrows shoot up at Daryl, who shrugs back. Clint hadn't wanted to go to the truck because of what had happened to his friends; the idea that he's content to give away their things doesn't seem right. He doesn't know the man, doesn't know how he grieves, and he doesn't know if that's actually what's causing him to make the offer in the first place. "Sure you don't just want to stash it?"

The offer hangs in the air between them, growing more awkward by the second. Charity is an especially strange thing these days, and it's never been anything to be trusted. 

"Don't plan on coming back this way," Clint says, finally realizing that it's on him to answer. "And besides, how's it go? Three can keep a secret if two are dead? No offense. But if I was worried about hiding gear from you, I wouldn't have pointed you towards it in the first place."

"We'll split it up between the three bags," Oliver suggests, glancing at Daryl again, as if his reaction might mean something. "If one gets lost, you won't be out of everything. Me and him will help you carry it, and anything we use on the way, count it as payment for mule services rendered. Deal?"

Clint nods. "Sounds good to me. Daryl?" 

He's a little startled to be asked, but he's got to hand it to Oliver; the balance of power's been evened out pretty nicely. 

"Okay." 

\--- 

The bulletin board in the back is covered with laminated posters describing the legal rights and responsibilities for store employees. Spanish on the right, English on the left, and underneath, scrawled in marker, someone's added _shoot first, ask questions later._

Less than a month ago, he'd been scrounging cars for gasoline for the bike when he'd heard a struggle coming from around the corner. He'd followed the sounds around the corner and onto the side street. Knowing that he might not have been the only thing in the vicinity attracted by the noise, he'd moved quietly until he could see. They'd already been covered in blood; their movements were drunk and slow, but planned. He'd watched as the knife changed hands three times, slashing and stabbing ineffectively in between. He'd only half-bothered to calculate how far the last roll of bandages in his pack might go, and after a few horrible minutes, it had been over. The taller of the two had managed to send them both crashing to the ground, driving the knife into the shorter man's chest. 

Oliver had watched the man drag himself no more than five feet away before collapsing, and only then did he approach.

The man hadn't been fully conscious, he'd managed to turn his head and look up at Oliver with insane, scared eyes, his hand tightening around the knife's handle. 

"Just killed a man for this." The man had been drowning, his voice thick and wet as the words crept out past the blood in his mouth, "...m'self, too." 

There hadn't been anything for Oliver to say to that, but he'd crouched down, picking the knife- it was a K-Bar- out of the man's hand. 

A moment later, when the man's eyes had closed and his chest wasn't so much breathing as trying to cough, Oliver had driven the blade into the side of his head. 

And then he'd wiped it off, and gone through their pockets. 

The lighter he'd found, he still had in his pocket, but the knife had been redundant. He'd already been carrying one just like it, but this one had felt heavier, as if the blood it had taken had soaked into the metal. 

Two days ago, he'd come across a convoy just outside of Montgomery, mostly women and younger men. The girl they'd had with them had been quiet, skinny like Thea'd been, and empty handed. 

They hadn't been interested in his warnings, and he hadn't bothered trying to convince them to come with him. But after five hours shared on the side of the road, he'd handed the K-Bar to the girl. There'd been a woman, not her mother, but a chaperone at least, who'd glared at him even as she'd thanked him. 

"She's thirteen years old," she'd coughed, rubbing a hand over her face. She'd looked exhausted, watching the girl hefting the knife's weight in her hands. "She shouldn't need it."

"Don't know that any of us should," Oliver had replied, but the girl had looked up, then, and grinned. It had been her first smile in at least five hours; in another life, it would have been horrifying. She'd brandished the knife playfully, like it hadn't weighed anything at all.

Maybe, in her hands, it hadn't. 

But Oliver looks at the bulletin board whenever he starts watching the sorting of the gear too closely. If something in that pile is too important to any of the three of them, he just doesn't want to know.


	5. Chapter 5

If it were Carl sitting there with that expression on his face, or Carol or Rick, Daryl would like to think that he'd be able to muster the ability to tell them something like _I'm sorry about everything, and how you had to kill your friend. Know how it feels._

No. That's terrible. Something like _sorry both of them died._ Or just _sorry_.

It's not like he actually knows the people Clint's obviously mourning. And anyway, after Merle? Fuck, Daryl'd _left_ because the people who'd tried to say the right thing around him, they'd tried too damned hard. At least the ones who'd been glad Merle had died hadn't bothered hiding it, hadn't left him feeling like he owed them something for their politeness.

So he keeps his mouth shut, and opens the MRE Clint tosses him. Beef ravioli. Decent enough. The other two do the same, getting the heating packs going and mixing their food, and Clint's the only one who looks distracted. He's probably been livin' on the things, doing whatever the hell it is he's been doing. 

Oliver's actually grinning as they eat, like he's enjoying it, though the expression's buried the moment he realizes he's been caught. It's funny, how different people can look when you're not pointing an arrow at their head.

They're quiet as they eat. There ain't much to talk about these days that ain't depressing as shit. He keeps his eyes on his food and doesn't think to look up again until Clint gets up, pulls the vodka bottle out of his bag, and freezes. 

He shakes himself after a long minute spent staring at it, like he doesn't know how it's gotten into his hand, and trades it for the whiskey. Turning back to them, he finally seems to come back to life. Opening the cap, he takes a swig, and hands the bottle to Oliver. 

"So. Oliver Queen." Daryl's not sure why he's smirking like that; it looks forced, but it's not worth questioning. "What's your interest in Governor Philip Blake?"

Oliver doesn't look like he's going to drink. He _does_ , however, look like he's going to be sick. 

"Nothing, any more." His voice is quiet, so Daryl can't tell if it's anger or what that he's got goin' on. His eyes are wide. Decisively, he puts the bottle up to his mouth and drinks, but not as much as Daryl's expecting him to, and then passes it over without meeting his eyes. Daryl takes a shot and passes the bottle back to Clint, who immediately holds it out to Oliver again. This time, Oliver drinks for real, and he regards them both carefully as he does so, like he's trying to weigh his options

Eventually, he clears his throat, and it's only then that Clint sits down again. "Have you ever heard of something called the Undertaking?"

Daryl's heard of the Undertaker, but he ain't fool enough to say it out loud right now, not with the both of them looking so dead serious. Clint, though, he's nodding, with this look on his face like he's tastin' something bitter. 

"Eventually, yeah, but not until..." Clint trails off, the way everyone does when they're talking about it. There's _before_ , and that's a touchy subject on the best of days, and there's whatever life is _now_. Nobody ever brings up the moment when one switched to the other, because nobody fucking knows. It's always a vague _"when it all went bad,"_ or _"when the dead began to walk."_

Everybody avoids the topic. Including, apparently, the two guys on the face of the planet who seem to actually fucking _know_ something about it. Daryl barely knows where the rage comes from, he's fresh out of patience. "That's great an' all, but you guys mind the hell sharin' with the rest of the class?"

Oliver looks back at him, jaw clenched, and it's probably just as well he's bracing himself, 'cause he's about to get clocked. Still, Daryl ain't ready for what he says next. "All of it. Everything. It's my fault."

\--- 

It's so quiet when Daryl does it, Clint doesn't even notice at first, and he's looking right _at_ them. Daryl's on his feet and behind Oliver, using his knee to shove him off the chair and down onto his knees. 

There's a knife in Daryl's hand, but at he's not striking, yet. He's just standing there behind Oliver, knuckles white around the handle, and his voice is shaking. 

"You're _seriously_ sittin' there, just tellin' us that you brought the fucking _end times_ , like we're just s'posed to- fuck. You fucking _kidding_ me?"

Daryl's eyes are wide, and Clint gets it, he does. The walkers might've made people ten times as likely to turn on each other, but it's easy for near strangers unite against the monster who'd brought this onto the world. He's currently considering enlisting himself.

Oliver, though, he looks almost _relieved_ , like he'd willingly take whatever stabbings are on offer. He's not even moving to defend himself. It's the kind of situation that Rogers would've already handled. Hell, _Stark_ would've jumped in by now. 

Clint makes more noise than he needs to, rising to his feet, because he doesn't know which way this thing's gonna go. If they're distracted, maybe he can do something. Hold it off, head off something stupid. Maybe get some of the answers he'd come out looking to find. 

"All right," he says, carefully, moving towards them; he's surprised when Daryl averts his eyes and steps back. It's strange, but with that temper, he'd been expecting more of a fight. "Ease up and let the man say his piece." 

And then, because he's not looking to pick sides just yet, he looks at Oliver. "In case you were wondering, man. Your piece ? It should probably be good." At least Oliver's eyes are flicking up like he's heard him. "Start from the beginning."

Oliver nods, settles himself more comfortably on the floor, leaning against the leg of the table. His face feels warm.

"My father was into some seriously messed up stuff, but I didn't know about any of it until he told me, flat out. Said that he'd been involved with a group of people who were planning on fixing everything that was broken in my hometown. Poverty. Crime. All that."

"Fix it like what, broken plumbing?" Daryl's still standing behind Oliver, so Clint's the only one who can see him scowling in disbelief, but there's more confusion there than anger. 

Oliver shrugs and doesn't risk looking behind him. "They were arrogant, and they were wrong. And my father had figured it all out. He'd planned on taking them all down before they could do anything, but they got to him first." From his jacket pocket, Oliver pulls out a small notebook, holding it up for Clint to take.

Clint's mouth has gone dry. If what Oliver's saying is true, there could've been a chance to head this off. 

Needing a moment to calm down before he says something stupid, he pages through the book, scanning down the list in the lantern light. Nearly all the names are neatly crossed out, and more than one is familiar. Brian Blake is the second to last one on the list, but he's flipping back through, because he thinks he's just missed something.

 _James Holder_. 

It must've been a year and a half ago, now. Natasha had been working Holder for months, trying to get him to turn on his partners, trying to find out what he'd known about three shipping containers of dead bodies that had been loosely tied back to him. He'd finally agreed to a deal in exchange for protection, and they'd just been given the okay to go retrieve him and bring him back to one of SHIELD's safe houses when news of his murder hit the airwaves. 

Oliver Queen had been arrested and charged, though never convicted, and it was right about then that Fury and Phil had started debating keeping an eye on him; whether they thought he'd be needing a handler or need to be handled, Clint had never known. 

Clint's fucking reeling _now_ , though. He wants to ask about the shipping containers, about the human trafficking rumors they'd never had the chance to sort out, but Daryl's grabbed the notebook out of his hand.

"What the fuck were these people doing?"

"Clearcutting." Oliver says. "Destroying people's homes and cutting the people down right along with them. There were riots- the only warning they got was-" his face is terrifying right now, angry, miserable as he shakes his head. "It wasn't _nearly_ enough. And it turned out, destroying the Glades was only the half of it."

"What're you talking about?"

"If they'd gone block by block, there would've been no way to outrun the bad press, so they'd orchestrated a series of explosions. A third of the city collapsed into a sinkhole, just like that."

He snaps his fingers. The sound it makes is small. 

"Hold up," Clint interrupts, trying to remember if that part had made the news. There was something about quakes, he thinks, right before the outbreak, which had led to some early speculation that the outbreak had been caused by the release of some previously unknown toxin, but by then, he wasn't exactly spending much time trying to tune in. 

He tries to pull it all together, very nearly raises his hand to ask. "So, what, some lab was on the fault line somewhere, this shit got out into the open?"

"No. It was pumped into the stadium and the convention center, where they'd set up the emergency shelters. Deliberately."

" _Jesus_ ," Daryl picks up the bottle again and taking a healthy swig, before muttering to himself. "Fuckin' assholes."

Something's still not adding up, though. "I don't get it. How does turning everyone into a _zombie_ drive up the property value of _anything_?"

"Paxilon Hydrochlorate. In the short term, it was designed to calm everyone down. Weed out the aggression. Long term, it was supposed to make them more receptive to suggestion. What better way to shape the society that you want, than order it into existence, right?" Finally, he looks up, an awful smirk tugging at his mouth. "You change the environment, then you change the people living in it."

"So what the fuck happened?"

"It didn't fucking _take_ ," Daryl rolls his eyes. "Fuckin' _obviously_."

Oliver nods, then shrugs. "I don't know. Friend of mine was looking into it before she died. Far as she could tell, something in the lining of the storage tanks changed the chemical composition from what they'd created in the labs."

"And?"

"And nothing. Chemists have been a little hard to come by lately." The leather squeaks as he shrugs. "Blake though. He was the one who'd engineered those containers, as well as the release mechanisms."

"Yeah?" Daryl scowls, but he's still waiting for him to lay it all out cleanly. 

"My friend, she found evidence that not only did he know what the canisters were going to be used for in the first place, he knew about the chemical changes that the tank linings caused. I guess when you're already at the point where you're willing to brainwash people, knowingly turning them into zombies isn't enough to make you turn down the paycheck."

Nobody says anything for a while, and in the gap, there's a noise coming through the door. Jingling, small, and rustling too localized to be the wind. 

Clint wanders to the door, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness after being so close to the lantern for so long. It only takes him a few seconds. "That's fucking insane," he eventually says, one hand on the doorknob. 

"Yeah," Daryl agrees, grabbing his crossbow and joining Clint at the door. "But you still haven't explained why, after everything, all this is apparently _your_ fault." It's impossible to tell if he's just wincing, or he's attempting to grin. A confused smirk seems to be as far as he's willing to go. "Gotta admit, man. I'm still a little bit curious on _that_ curious fucking detail."


	6. Chapter 6

There'd been so much panic in Starling City, in the wake of the destruction that he'd failed to avert, that Oliver hadn't even _noticed_ , at first. 

Tommy had died. His mother had been arrested, and Thea had disappeared. He'd been searching increasingly volatile streets so intently for her that he hadn't even noticed that the tide of people crushing into the stadium looking for shelter had started running the other way.

Diggle had managed to get Carly and her son to the club's basement, but even as isolated as it was, it was never going to be a long-term solution. By the time Oliver had returned the second night, Felicity had managed to repair their systems enough to hear the emergency address from the Governor, directing survivors to the bay for evacuation.

The first wave of ships had already come and gone, but money had still been worth something on day three. Felicity had outright refused to leave, but he'd managed to buy passage for Diggle and his family on one of the cruise liners heading out into the bay to wait out the storm. 

Oliver had been on his way back from the bay when he'd caught sight of a man, limping and confused. Most likely injured in the blast or the fights. He'd looked _bad_ , though, in a way that stuck out, and it had caught Oliver's attention. It wasn't until Oliver had gotten closer that he'd noticed the second man, then the third. 

They'd noticed him back, and it had felt _familiar_ , like he was prey. But they hadn't been armed, and he'd been walking _towards_ them, still trying to make sense of what he was seeing. And the gunshots had gone off, because Diggle had probably always been too stupidly stubborn to actually leave a fight when given the chance. 

"Everyone on the boat's talking about it," he'd said, grabbing Oliver by the sleeve and marching him down the center of the street, eyes to the alleys. "Fucking _zombies_ , can you believe this shit?"

"Your family-" Oliver had tried, gesturing back towards the bay but unable to take his eyes off the gory bodies lying in the street. Suddenly, it had seemed that bodies just like them had been piling up _everywhere_ , and he just hadn't noticed until he'd been stepping over them. 

Diggs had just shook his head, shoving him up the street in response, not quite letting him stumble. Another body was twitching on the ground, up by the corner, but it wasn't until he'd turned around that he'd noticed the things that _should've_ been dead on the ground coming after them. 

"Already setting sail. We gotta _move_ , man."

\--- 

Thinking about it now, Oliver nearly wants to laugh at his own first impressions. 

Fighting walkers is mind-numbingly easy, which is actually what makes them so dangerous in the long run. 

Because sometimes, Oliver lets them get just a bit too close. Waits just a little too long to shoot. He tells himself that it's about keeping in practice, not about the jolt of adrenaline. It's not that he's seriously considered not fighting them, it's just that the waiting forces him to focus, gives him something resembling _purpose_.

Tonight, however, is not one of those nights; the fight is over before he'd even drawn his third arrow. Clint and Daryl are already taking lazy, meandering arcs on their way through the front of the store to confirm their kills. 

Oliver shakes himself and follows suit. He's pulling the arrow out of the second walker he'd downed when it hits him: he'll never be done cleaning up his family's messes. 

By the time they've swept the area, spreading out through the parking lot to make sure they hadn't missed any stragglers. Clint finds one on the other side of a gray sedan with flat tires, and doesn't even bother to stop and check the bag she's still got strapped to her for supplies. He just grabs the arrow out of her head and moves on. 

\--- 

Daryl's scanned all the way out to the highway, only finding two more geeks on the off-ramp. They're taken care of easily enough. There's no pushing the arrow through the skull of the last one he'd downed; it had taken two shots to take it out. 

It's not until he's dug the arrow out from the side that he realizes the geek's got a metal plate in its head.

The rag he's got on him for wiping everything down is a lost cause, damp and crusty and _stinking_ , so he drops it down on the side of the road, and he turns back.

He's beat to hell by the time he finds them sitting by the store's entrance, their backs to the wall next to where they'd connected the fishing line. The fight had been nothing to write home about, but Oliver looks like he's falling asleep, and Clint's got a white-knuckled grip on his bow and his eyes are too wide.

"Who's got first watch?" It's close enough to a greeting, he figures, and hashing out all the _it's getting late_ and _what do you think we should do_ is just a waste of time. Only he's wondering if they're gonna have to waste time on it anyway, 'cause Oliver's blinking up at him like he's just sprouted a third head. It's irritating, but he smirks when he says it, tries to make it sound like a joke. "You do know that there are fucking _zombies_ in these parts, right?"

Oliver shakes his head like he's trying to wake up; kind of sounds surprised. "Yeah, ah-"

"I'll do it," Clint interrupts, glancing between the two of them and getting to his feet with a grimace. "Seriously. Too keyed up to sleep." At least he seems to know that he's being manic, as he grimaces at Oliver. "You guys get some shut-eye. We can finish your interrogation in the morning."

Oliver smirks; there's not much humor in it. He's not the laughing type. "You don't think I'm gonna kill you in your sleep?"

"Not until you mentioned it," Daryl rubs at his face, rethinking the entire invitation. This was exactly why he'd needed to get away from the prison. Neurotic fucking people. 

\--- 

Clint leans against the doorway, looking at the trees on the other side of the parking lot. In another week or so, there won't be so many leaves to impede his vision. Another few weeks after that, though, and it'll start getting cold. 

The moon's out, somewhere, but the light's not quite reaching the ground through the clouds and rain that's started pissing down again. He can only just make out the truck up on the road, and now that there's nobody to see him, he lets- _makes_ \- himself stare at it. 

_Make it quick, bury me shallow or not at all, get to safety_.

They'd made the fucking promises, him, Phil, and Natasha, like they'd all thought they'd already lived through the worst of it. Like they'd assumed that every near miss and close call they'd survived together had given them some sort of immunity. 

Maybe they'd just thought that they'd all go down together, one big blaze of glory. 

Not so fucking much. 

He'd been too late for Phil, but he'd managed to do alright by Natasha, in the end. 

_Alright_. 

Fuck, he wants to scream again. 

Carefully stepping over the trip-wire, he crosses back through the store, stopping in the doorway to check on the others. Daryl is stretched out on his side, his back against the far wall, face buried in his arms. Oliver, though, he's still obviously awake, lying flat on his back and scowling resolutely up at the ceiling. He doesn't say anything.

Clint turns back towards the front of the store, resuming his post, and swallows it down again, like he's been doing for days, now. Forces himself to write the action report out in his head again, third-person, the way Coulson insists. Insisted. Take out the feelings, just get down what happened. From arriving in Barnesville three days ago, to arriving at the store today. Line by line, box by box. He's got the format memorized. 

_After firing one (1) shot from Romanoff's service sidearm to remove the threat, Barton assessed Romanoff's condition. One bite, well-defined. Romanoff remained lucid and reminded Barton of the standing orders (Section 133, Clause 3; Section 277; Emergency Order 55) regarding mitigation of threats due to field agents' becoming compromised. Barton fired two (2) rounds to prevent Romanoff's reanimation, confirmed that the threat had been mitigated, and returned to the vehicle to make a verbal report to Agent-_

He sobs, suddenly, catching himself before another can follow. Covering his mouth doesn't help any more than digging his fingertips sharply into the side of his face does, but it keeps him from making a damned fool of himself. Keeps him quiet. 

He's still trying to catch his breath- it's been days now, he should really be over this- when there's movement behind him.

He's got his bow up and an arrow nocked the moment he turns, but it's just Oliver, telegraphing his every move as he crosses the floor. He's got a bottle in his hand.

"I'm going to walk the perimeter," Oliver's face, under the hood that he's pulled up, is as unreadable as his tone, but he sets the bottle down next to Clint as he passes. "Back in twenty."

The _do what you've got to_ is heavily implied. 

\--- 

Clint doesn't argue when Oliver takes over the watch; he just grabs a sleeping bag, drags it over himself, and lies on his side facing away from the door. It's not a defensible position. Up until now, his movements have been economical, fluid. _Trained_. Oliver thinks that Clint _ought_ to know better than to block his own line of sight the way he's doing. 

It's taken Oliver an awfully long time to realize that keeping watch for each other is still, apparently, a thing that people do. He just doesn't know what to do with that information. It'll be moot soon anyway. As soon as morning comes, he's going to let the other shoe drop, and their apparent trust in him will no longer be something he needs to worry about. 

He could leave, right now, before the inevitable. Put Barnesville, these two days, these two people behind him. 

Blake's is the last name in the notebook; the ink skips and Oliver has to dig into the page to cross it out. He's got two guys and a picked-over store at his back, a parking lot and a quiet road in front of him, and no clue what he is supposed to do with himself.

He could just go in, grab his gear, and get a head start. Disappear before sunrise. Keep moving. 

It's been a long time since he's done right by anyone, though. He can't fix anything, but he can stand guard. 

\--- 

Daryl wakes up feeling suspiciously well-rested. He also smells coffee, but it's not until he realizes that there's sunlight blasting through the store that nobody had woken him up to take watch. He's up on his feet almost too quickly, stretching his back out and peering out through the store. Clint's pacing back and forth in the parking lot; he can't see Oliver from here. 

The camp stove's been shut off but the pot's still warm, and he grabs his cup from where he's hung it off his pack. Pouring himself some, feeling like a thief until he's made it up to the front of the store to find Oliver leaning against the cash register, toasting him with his own mug. 

"Mornin'."

Daryl nods back, looks out the window at Clint, then scowls as he realizes what he's actually doing. "The fuck?" Clint's got the damned phone in his hand, staring at it like he's actually expecting to get a signal. It's as unsettling as it is pointless. "It's all the same everywhere, right? So what's the fucking point?" 

Oliver shrugs. Given the dark circles under his eyes, it's likely he's just too tired to be concerned. 

Daryl drinks his coffee- it's horrible, but he's had worse, and goes out onto the sidewalk to watch. After a few minutes, Clint gives up, shoving the phone into his pocket with an annoyed sigh. He glances up at them like he's just now noticed him staring. 

"Hey," he says, patting his pocket. "Sorry. I was just." He shakes his head. "The signal's crap. I'll try again in a few hours."

"Try what?" He keeps his voice level, unassuming. If Clint's going crazy... 

"I'm supposed to call it in, tell them what happened." Clint rubs his hands on his jeans, then grimaces like he knows how weird he's being. "Standing orders. Long odds."

Not like it matters, but Daryl glances over to see what Oliver's making of this. He barely seems to be tracking anything at all, though, and maybe that's actually the right route to take. The prospect of clearing several miles on foot with these two- never mind introducing them to the others, and all the bullshit _that's_ going to entail- is looking less appealing by the minute. 

The others are going to be pissed. Now probably ain't the time to be bringing more new people- especially crazy ones- round to the camp. It _definitely_ ain't the time for Daryl to be trying to vouch for anybody, neither. Between the shit he's pulled, and the shit people _think_ he'd pull, him being a Dixon and all, he knows where he stands, and always has. The family reputation's strong enough that a fucking apocalypse can't shake it. 

But fuck it. Someone's made coffee, and someone- probably Oliver, by the looks of it- let him sleep in. There's worse people to go to bat for. And besides, the say what you will, but Dixons ain't ever been known for backing down from a fight. Seein' as how he's the only one left, _someone's_ got to carry on the tradition. 

He doesn't say any of this, though. Instead, he just asks Clint to borrow the camera on his phone. Carrying on tradition's one thing. Carrying around a head that's starting to rot is starting to lose its appeal.


	7. Chapter 7

In suburbs like this, there's nothing useful for sustained cover. Too many roads and unprotected driveways. Not enough trees. The grass has grown long, and walking through it will only slow them down. They fan out over the road as they begin their trek west, knowing that they're running the risk of being seen.

They keep their eyes open and their mouths shut for the first several hours, even though it's too late in the morning for hunting. By noon, the sky's gone cloudy again, and there are storms down on the southern horizon. They've crossed into farmland, now, and there's no cover for a quarter of a mile in any direction. 

"So let's hear the rest of it, then," Daryl says to Oliver. "Why all this is on you." 

Clint, for his part, has gotten so used to the silence that it takes him a moment to register his words, but the straightening of Oliver's shoulders looks like a wince. Clint steps quickly to fall into step on Oliver's left side. "Sorry, man," he says, when Oliver glances at him. Better to let him think that he's hemming him in, rather than keeping his good ear closest to the conversation. "But think about it. He's gonna need to know if he's bringing a threat back to his people, and you scared the hell out of him last night."

The glare Daryl gives him could strip paint, but Oliver twitches a half grin in his direction. 

\--- 

The question's have been inbound since last night, and Oliver hadn't been able to sleep, trying to rehearse his lines, trying to guess how the fallout was going to hit. 

"The names in the book I showed you were written down about seven years ago," he begins, listening to their feet crunching the gravel as they keep walking. "It was outdated by the time I came back from the island. There were a lot of pieces I had to put together in order to find out what the Undertaking really was."

"Okay," Daryl says, but It's not agreement, it's not even interruption, really, but honestly, he's been expecting an argument ever since they'd cleared the city limits. Just when Oliver's wondering if he's going to make something of it, Daryl's eyes find the gravel again. 

On Oliver's left side, Clint's keeping perfectly in step. 

"I wasn't as smart as I should've been. There were things I just refused to see, and there was this guy. Diggle. _He'd_ seen it, right from the start. But I didn't believe him."

"Diggle," Clint says, derailing him. "He a friend of yours?"

"Yeah." Oliver blinks. His eyes feel gritty and dry. "When he didn't hate my guts."

"So why were you even friends?" Clint looks startled by his own question. Shakes his head to say that Oliver doesn't have to answer. 

"Because he didn't know me at all, before meeting me, and he didn't like me when he did."

On his right, Daryl snorts, and it's echoed on his left. "Yeah, 'cause _that_ makes sense."

"Yeah, well." Honestly, he hadn't meant to say it, but now that it's out, he might as well try to explain. "Everyone _else_ who hated me, they'd known me before I'd disappeared for five years. They had their reasons. The people who _liked_ me, though, they liked the version of me who'd _disappeared_. Diggs didn't have a basis of comparison." He's not explaining it well; he's awfully close to explaining that earning Diggle's trust might've been the greatest thing he'd ever accomplished. It wouldn't mean anything to them, anyway.. "Diggs was as close to a clean slate as I figured I'd get."

He can feel the two of them exchanging glances. "So. We'd been working together, going down the list and trying to figure out what was going on. The thing was like my Bible, or something, but like I said, it was old. Didn't cover everything. So when Diggs found out that my mother was involved in the- that she knew about the plan to destroy the Glades, I blew him off. Royally."

"Your _mom_ was in on it?"

Oliver nods, but now that he's gotten started, he just wants to finish. "If I'd seen it sooner, if I'd _listened_. We could've gotten in front of it. As it was, we only managed to get in front of _part_ of it. _One_ bomb, when there were actually two. A lot of people died." He can't even get into how he knows in his head that she'd been forced into it, or how she'd tried to head it off. Or even, how after all this time, he still hasn't managed to forgive her. His voice is dangerously close to shaking; he takes a breath, and it doesn't fill his lungs the way he thinks it should.

"A _lot_ of people, and... Even right then, when the buildings started coming down, and the riots started? I didn't even know that there was more to come. I didn't have a clue." 

For a minute, he just breathes, concentrates on the road crunching beneath his boots and the blister that's forming where the new leather hasn't broken in. He focuses on the air on his face, and the fact that he hasn't bathed in days. He tries to notice anything that isn't the silence coming at him, aimed from either side, with snipers' precision.

\---

"You're fucking kidding me," Daryl finally says, the third or fourth time Clint looks at him. He'd been the one so damned concerned, after all, and as far as _Clint's_ concerned, it's on him to speak.

He's not expecting him to crack a smirk, though, or shrug like they're discussing the weather. "You, not wanting to think your mom was the kind do something like that? It ain't exactly pulling the trigger on the end times."

It almost sounds like he's trying to forgive Oliver, after a fashion, but Oliver doesn't raise his head. His shoulders are hunched over, but enough of his expression's getting through that it's hard not to feel for the guy. 

"She wasn't," Clint finds himself saying. "She tried to get the word out."

"How do you know that?" Oliver's blinking up at him in confused surprise. 

"She _did_ hold a press conference, you know. Not exactly a state secret, all of it." It had been played and replayed on the conference room screens of every SHEILD office for days, right up until the outbreak. He's practically got it memorized. There's just one thing he's been wondering about. "Did she know about the plans to gas the emergency shelters?"

"I don't know," Oliver replies, in a tone that makes Clint wish he'd never fucking asked. "The police took her, and I never saw her again."


	8. Chapter 8

Oliver's used up all his words for the day, maybe the week, and there's not a lot of conversation, afterwards. As far as he himself goes, he's just too tired, and it doesn't seem that any of them are really the type for casual conversation. 

For the most part, they march in silence, trudging along the road, darting off now and again to relieve themselves or check out the occasional ditched car. According to the map, cross-country hike would've been more direct, but nobody had argued when Daryl opted against straying from the road. 

"You wanna go twisting your ankle on some tilled up rocks, that's your problem," he'd shook his head dismissively, as if Clint's suggestion had been the stupidest thing he'd ever heard, and he'd been honestly surprised that anyone would even suggest it. "I ain't carrying your ass outta there." 

Oliver wonders what the odds are that he'd grown up on or near a farm, but he stops well short of asking. He _might_ be coming up on the point where he punches him in the neck, however, because every time Oliver so much as glances in his direction, Daryl's in the process of looking away from him quickly. Every. Single. Time. 

Only slightly less irritating is Clint's tendency mess with his phone. His muttered curses to himself, every time he's failed, are the only words that've been spoken in several hours; even Daryl seems to have the sense not to call him on it. There are some things you don't mess with, and these days? Poking people's coping mechanisms with a stick are a good way to get yourself killed. 

The third time Clint lags behind to pull his phone out, Daryl sidles up next to Oliver, and the exhaustion due to last night's lack of sleep isn't doing Oliver any favors; he doesn't even notice until Daryl's less than an arm's length away. 

"Look." He's not, apparently, the type to look directly at people when they're looking back. Instead, he's scowling at the farmhouse set back past the untended field to the north. "Sorry about that knife thing. Last night." As if either of them really need the clarification.

He'd been expecting a fight, not an apology, and he's not sure why he's getting one, but he does manage a "thanks," as they shake hands. Daryl doesn't quite manage to grin, but then, Oliver doesn't either. 

"Fucking clouds," Clint's muttering as he catches up with them. "Swear to god, the damned things are still up in orbit. Just not getting through the cover, or something." Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he looks back over his shoulder, and his face goes slack. 

"And when I say, _'or something_...'"

The sky up ahead, to the north and the west, is the same indiscernible gray that it's been all afternoon. 

Behind them, though, it's gone dark green. 

\---

They're drenched by the time they make the porch, and Clint's skin is stinging from the hail that's been pelting them for the last minute or so. 

Anyone left living in the farmhouse would've seen them coming from at least a quarter mile out; they would've either shouted or shot by now. This much wind and thunder is too much for the hearing aid to process, and the hail banging against the aluminum siding is almost pure white noise. The screen door banging sharply against the frame, though, he can hear just fine. He's heading for it when Daryl shouts from the gravel driveway. 

"Fuck that, they got a cellar!"

"You sure-" Whatever he's about to say is lost when he turns around again. The sky's gone from green to dark brown, and with the exception of the cracks of lightning, visibility's down to less than a mile. If there's a tornado coming, they won't even see it coming until it's right on top of them. 

He jumps off the end of the porch and follows Daryl around the side of the house; Oliver's already trying to pry open the root cellar door- the hail sounds like someone's firing full clips into the sheet metal- and not having much luck. 

"Any luck?"

Whatever Oliver says in response is lost; between the two of them, though, they manage to get the metal open about an inch before stopping and stepping back. 

"Bolted from the inside?"

He's about to point out that if they break whatever's keeping it shut, the door will be useless, but that's not what's stopping them. 

It's the moldering gray fingers, creeping out through the opening. 

He turns on his heel and heads back for the porch, thankful for the awning that's keeping the worst of the hail and rain off of him as he checks the window and kicks the inner door in, destroying the lock in the process. 

Daryl and Oliver follow suit a moment later, but Oliver's the only one looking over his shoulder as they head inside. By the time another minute's gone by, they've got a heavy table pushed in front of the door and Clint leans against it, trying to swipe the rain off of his face. 

It's finally quiet, but if there are walkers in the basement, they need to check the house. Clint grabs the flashlight out of his sodden pack, the other two do the same, and they set out, clearing the kitchen and the hallway first. 

This place probably hadn't ever made the cover of Better Homes and Gardens before the world went to hell; now it looks like something out of a horror movie. The couch in the living room has something living in it, the dining room smells like something died in it. The first bedroom they find doesn't look like it's been touched since the 1960's; there are model planes on the shelves and dirty plastic over the furniture. The bathroom's in okay condition, all things considered, though the medicine cabinet's been cleaned out. The door at the end of the hallway is the master bedroom; the larger window on the north wall is missing most of the glass. Dead wet leaves are clinging to the floor and walls. 

Clint and Oliver go check the damage, looking outside. It's not likely that a walker's going to be able to make it through- the window's set fairly high in the wall- but the storm's coming through just fine. When they back out into the hallway, they shut the door behind them. Hopefully, it'll hold. 

\--- 

Used to be, Daryl had other reasons for hating storms. Being cooped up in a too-small house with Dad and Merle. The humidity leading up to the rain, the mud that got in everywhere. Everyone's plans being fucked up on account of the weather, and that leak in the kitchen ceiling driving everyone nuts until someone snapped first. Always seemed like half the damage the weather would bring actually happened inside. 

Nowadays, though, it's what's happening outside that's troubling, or maybe it's just not knowing how it'll all play out. Rain soaking into wood for too long weakens it. Hail can crack glass. Wind that's capable of shearing the siding off a house is capable of destroying more of the prison's patchwork fencing than he'd like to admit, and he doesn't even want to admit that he's _concerned_ about it. 

If he concentrates on listening, turns his ear towards the wall, he can hear at least two, if not more, bodies stumbling around the basement just below him. Bad weather's like that. Riles the geeks up somethin' fierce, and they're like worms. Always out in force, afterwards.

"How d'you suppose he manages that?" 

Rubbing his hands over his bare arms to warm up, he looks across at Clint, who'd also opted against any of the ratty-ass furniture in favor of the floor. He's watching Oliver, who'd decided to risk sitting on the sofa. It's hard to tell from down here, but it looks like he's sleeping.

"Didn't wake me up to take watch last night." Daryl follows Clint's lead and keeps his voice down, even though Oliver's an idiot and there are walkers underneath the house. It's been at least twenty-four hours, he guesses, since the three of them had met up. "Must need it."

Clint shrugs, goes back to fidgeting with whatever it is he's holding on to. 

The damned phone, again. 

"You seriously think you're gonna get a signal, or what?"

Clint slides the phone across the floor towards him; it's weird looking when he picks it up. "Satellite phone," Clint explains. "Up until two weeks ago, I was usually able to. Had basic weather imagery layers up on it until a few days ago. Keep hoping..." He sighs, and Daryl looks up, but Clint's looking up at the window. "You'd think the zombie apocalypse would be enough, you know? Get us off the hook for tornado season at least." 

They're fine for now, that's the main thing, but the thunder and lightning have been coming more sporadically for the last half hour or so. 

"Sounds like it's slowing down," Daryl shrugs, figuring that if Clint can make efforts at conversation, he can hold up his own end. 

Clint follows his gaze back up through the window, wincing at the sight. He zips up the sweatshirt he'd dragged on earlier, and still manages to look like he's colder than Daryl is. "Think we should stay here for the night?"

He shrugs. "Probably." They hadn't cleared as much ground as he'd hoped, but a good portion of that darkness outside is night closing in. The draft is still coming through the windows cold and wet; it's unlikely that the gear they'd laid out on the other side of the room has dried off at all. 

\--- 

Clint leaves Daryl on the porch to keep an eye on the front yard as he goes around the side to make sure the cellar door's still shut. It is, thankfully, as solidly bolted as it had been before. Whoever they'd been before they'd gone down there, they'd been scared.

They'd probably gotten a hell of a lot more scared when they'd realized they'd bolted themselves in, and that one of them had already been bitten. 

However long ago that had been, the panic's still contagious, even if it lasts for no more than a few seconds. It's just enough to make him step quickly back around the corner and up the porch steps. Daryl's still waiting by the front door, crossbow ready, looking cold and bored.

It's insane, what people can get used to.

They're clear, though, that's what important; either he manages to convey it to Daryl with a nod, or the confirmation isn't needed in the first place. 

The walls are enough to hold off the wind, but the interior of the house isn't much warmer than the exterior, and it's a lot darker. As he heads for the packs to start figuring out the food situation, he glances over at the couch, where Oliver's still sleeping. 

It's been at least two hours, now, and he's not one to begrudge a man, but it's likely that the moment they break out the camp stove and the lantern, he's going to wake up anyhow. Figuring that he might as well try for a controlled ascent, he risks putting a hand on Oliver's arm. The skin of his wrist is warm. 

"Hey." 

Nothing. His face is still slack, and even though there's still a fair amount of moisture in the air from the rain, he should've dried off by now. That panic that he'd avoided a few moments ago is coming back in full force. " _Hey!_ "

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut even tighter before squinting them open in irritation, then winces when Daryl turns the lantern on. Clint does too, because Oliver's a mess. His skin is flushed, he's sweating, and his eyes don't seem to be tracking right. 

" _Fuck_ ," he says. "You all right, man?"

Oliver groans in response, wiping his face with his sleeve and sitting up. "Never better." 

"You should've crashed out last night," Daryl finishes rummaging through his pack for a bottle of water and a couple NyQuil tabs. He doesn't quite sneer when he hands them over.

Oliver nods his thanks and manages to wrestle a thumbnail between the paper backing and the foil, peeling it back so that he can punch the gel tabs through. 

"I'll live," he grumbles, wrestling a thumbnail between the paper backing and the foil, peeling it back so that he can punch the tabs through. Downing them, he winces as he swallows, then looks up. "But. Sorry if you guys catch it."

Daryl's already backed away as if a few feet of distance is enough to thwart the spread. 

"Not the end of the world," Clint says, "Right?"

Oliver closes his eyes again, and so he misses the look Clint shoots Daryl. 

Once Oliver's asleep again, they're going to have to talk. Because this? This looks bad.


	9. Chapter 9

"Hey."

Oliver's first thought, mid-waking, is that it sounds like Diggle's caught a cold. When he opens his eyes to instead find Daryl standing there, jacket in hand, it's startling. Still, he can't remember exactly what he'd been dreaming about. 

Daryl holds up a finger to stop him from saying anything, then swivels it to point at Clint, lying down on the floor with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his face. Oliver nods, suppressing a cough, and stands slowly, and shakes his shirt loose from where it's sticking to his sweaty skin. The room doesn't spin, but it definitely wavers as he follows Daryl into the kitchen. For a few seconds, the cold air drafting in through the broken window feels nice, but it quickly shifts to just feeling _cold_

"I'll be back in a few," Daryl pulls on his coat. "Gonna do a sweep, go check the barn out back."

He'd been so out of it, he hadn't even _noticed_ a barn. _Shit_. "You want backup?"

Backlit by the window the way he is, it's hard to tell if the glance Daryl gives him is as withering as it seems. A moment later, he's out the door, crossbow in hand. 

Stretching his arms back to the point where the tension makes him feel like coughing, he swallows it down and steps carefully back to where his bow and quiver are propped next to the television. Through the window, the barn isn't as huge or red as he'd been expecting; it's more of a garage than anything, and he thinks it looks vaguely familiar. 

He steps onto the back porch the same moment Daryl slides the barn's door, and watches him bring up the crossbow. He back-steps quickly, waiting for whatever might be inside to register his presence. The only reaction Oliver can hear is that of the walkers in the cellar, about ten feet southeast of where he himself is standing. 

When a minute goes by, and Daryl's heading inside, he starts off across the yard to follow. Midway between the house and the barn, he finally allows himself the cough that's been sitting in his throat since he'd opened his eyes. 

It's racking, makes his chest hurt and his head swim, and he has to brace one hand on his knee as he catches his breath, afterward, and listens. He's thirty years old, and between the island, the shit he'd pulled back home, and the zombie apocalypse, he's probably spent more than a fifth of his life listening for any threats that might hear him. He's spent less than a millionth letting himself think about how fucked up that is, and only barely allows the thought now for a few seconds. 

When he straightens, it's because there's a dragging noise from the shed; he breaks off into a run. 

When he makes it close enough to see inside, Daryl's already checking out the red SUV he's found. The air's thick with dust from whatever Daryl had displaced.

Oliver stays out in the yard, keeping an eye out, but at least he doesn't have to speak loudly. "Tires look low. How's the tank look?"

"Good." Daryl squints out at him. "Better news? There's an air compressor in here. Generator, too. Shouldn't take too long to get moving, long as it runs."

Oliver scans back over his shoulder. There's nothing in the yard, but the fields are overgrown. "If you're looking to test it..."

"Gonna wait for Clint to wake up." Using the latch inside the cab, he raises the hood. "Figure we'll need some cover when the noise starts up. You guys can split it up, I'll see to the tires. Then we load all of it in back, take it back with us to the camp. That work?"

"Better than walking," Oliver suppresses another cough. "Want any help?"

"Nah, you just keep watch where you're at. Don't wanna get sick." He glances up from the engine block and shrugs. "Nothin' personal."

\--- 

Apart from the sun's valiant but failed attempt at breaking through the cloud cover this morning, the day's been damp and gray. Cold too, whenever Clint jumps out of the back seat to help Daryl push the odd car out of the way. The amount of time they spend backtracking and re-routing is nothing compared to the congestion he'd faced coming out of New York, but it's still staggering. According to the beat up map, there's only about 30 miles between Barnesville, where they'd met, to Woodbury, and it's taken about seven hours to make it as far as a town that looks like it's been razed, most likely Molena. 

They'd just reached the point where 74 joined up with 109 when they see the Army truck blocking both lanes, but they don't stop. The bullet holes strafing the sides are old, the metal edges rusting already. It's pointless, and the road here is wide enough that they can circumnavigate it easily. Looking out past the windshield wipers as Oliver steers the SUV carefully off the road, Clint notices two things that he might've spotted earlier, had he not been studying the map. 

The fields outside are green going on brown, but there's a dusting over everything that doesn't make sense, not until the windshield wiper sweeps another pass on the glass, leaving a trail along the edge that's more distinct that it should be.

"Fucking hell," Oliver says, seeing it too. "It's still October, right? Can't be fucking snowing _already_."

Clint frowns. "Does it even _snow_ in Georgia?"

"Ain't gonna stick." Daryl takes his eyes off the field to look at them both. Despite his insistence, he looks uneasy, like he isn't sure. It's hard to tell, from the back seat, if his concern is actually contagious, or if it's just Oliver's cold, or whatever, that's putting that expression on his face. 

Clint's not surprised. Between last night's storm, the tornado that had probably touched down somewhere nearby, and the zombie fucking apocalypse, there probably aren't too many people left to trust that the weather's going to be what it always was. Maybe it's just the lack of newscasters and weather alerts. Or maybe the zombies were just the opening salvo. 

He doesn't voice his thoughts, however. Instead, he sits back in his seat. "If it doesn't stop, I'm driving."

Daryl looks back over his shoulder at at him, confused. "Why?"

"Eight winters in New York and a few in Siberia. I've seen the damage you sunny weather people are capable of doing when there's half an inch on the ground, and I didn't survive the zombie invasion just to spin out on a foot-wide ice patch." 

Oliver snorts, and for a second it sounds like he's about to lapse into another coughing fit. Clint's looking back out the window when it hits, though, only this time, it's not coming from the driver's seat, it's coming from Daryl. 

"Shit," he groans, glaring out the window.

"Sorry." Oliver's looking at him apologetically, but Daryl's already shaking his head.

"Ain't what I'm talkin' about," he says, and points out the windshield. 

They've reached the bridge. The trees on the north side are bent and twisted, some of them are completely down, and it looks like they've dragged the road down with them. 

\--- 

The fact that they've already established a routine for getting out of the truck, keeping an eye on any likely cover and clearing any areas that look shady, means that nobody has to say anything until they're all standing outside, freezing their asses off, their weapons in hand. 

Not that three bows are going to do them much good against something like this.. 

"Was fucking _fine_ when I came through last week." Daryl's pacing, glaring at the bridge like it owes him something, and maybe that's not too far off. Oliver knows the feeling. He'd barely noticed the bridge at all, when he'd crossed over it a few nights ago. 

Clint's giving the bus stopped in the eastbound lane a wide berth, apparently unconcerned with anything that might be waiting, so Oliver listens carefully for any sounds coming from inside as he passes. The water from the river makes it hard to hear, and he's lagging behind. 

By the time he catches up, Clint's stepped carefully onto the bridge, going no more than five feet out as he searches up and down the river. Ten feet ahead of him is a shallow, square-cut canyon; the layers of concrete on the other side laid out in a definite topography that bottoms out in wet, swirling mud. The metal and wood support railings that sit along side it are twisted; the metal's held, but the wood's radiating out at strange angles like a twisted comb, chunks of metal and concrete clinging to some of the ends. 

"You know where the nearest crossing is?"

"Have to look at the map," Daryl mutters; his attention is firmly on the gap. Oliver's the first one to make it to the edge to look down at the fallen roadway. The dividing lines are still visible underneath a foot or two of muddy water, but the road surface itself is more or less in one piece. 

Despite the sudden vertigo- there's a fifteen foot drop from between where he's standing and the road below- he can see that it should be easy enough to cross, as long as Daryl can be convinced to ditch the truck and the generator they'd hefted into the back. 

He's startled by the hand on his arm, tugging him back. 

"You looked like you were going to pass out," Clint's giving him a concerned grin. "You all right?"

He's dizzy, and apparently he'd been staring down into the water long enough for Clint to made the round trip back to the SUV. Shaking the hair out of his eyes, he takes as deep a breath as his lungs will allow, notices the map in Clint's hand. 

Between the hoodie and the purple sneakers- his boots must've gotten soaked- Clint looks more like a slacker college student than he does a soldier-mercenary-government agent, and if not the clothes, the amusement in his eyes definitely does. Maybe that's why Oliver grins back. 

Or maybe he just doesn't want to admit that he'd been startled, or that almost all of his attention is on Clint's fingers, still wrapped around his bicep. 

"I'm fine."

\--- 

"Nearest crossing's about six miles upriver," Daryl points it out on the map. "Either of you come through that way?"

Both of them shake their heads. 

"Came from east of here," Clint says. "Your call, boss." 

Daryl can't tell if Clint's fucking with him, or if it's just something the guy says, like ma'am, or sir. Merle, back in the day, he'd hung out with these crazy Russian guys who'd called everyone _bro_ , women included, Like they hadn't known any other words. 

There's no point in debating the plan; odds are, they already know the score. Woodbury's only a few more miles down the road. Six miles upriver is more like ten miles on the road, and they've got no idea what they're gonna find. 

On the other hand, they'll have to hike the rest of the way, and will have to leave the generator, as well as three-quarters of a tank of fuel, behind. It ain't all that far, but the thing's heavy, and Daryl just ain't up for it right now. 

For all he knows, they might luck out and find some gas cans and a vehicle in Woodbury. A few ropes and a sled or something, and they might be able to get the fuel and generator across later. 

Besides. He's been feeling steadily worse since this morning. 

"If you got gear that's still wet from yesterday, change into it," Daryl decides. "We cross here. Come back for this if it makes sense to. We can make Woodbury in less than an hour." 

Clint flicks some caked dirt from the frame of his bow. "The Governor still have people there?" 

"Only if they circled back." There ain't no point in pretending otherwise. "Refugees went back a few times to grab what they could. But last I knew, they hadn't seen anyone." 

He waits for either of them to argue, but Clint's just going back to the SUV, pulling off his sneakers and pulling on the boots he'd been wearing yesterday. As far as he himself goes, he just rolls his pants up to his knees. Oliver opens his bag to regard his sodden leather pants, and Daryl wants to how how he figures he's going to get them back on. Oliver seems to have the same line of questioning, and after a moment, he just pulls out some rope instead, loosening the end that's wrapped around it until it's in a large coil that he hangs over his shoulder. The truck doesn't even shift when he sits down on the rear bumper. 

Clint seems content to give him a few minutes, but the sight of it is making Daryl nervous. Right now, Oliver is like the canary in the coal mine. Whatever happens to him is heading Daryl's way next. And the guy looks miserable enough that Daryl's about to call it, to get back in the SUV and start backtracking, but then Oliver forces himself to his feet. 

Clint takes the rope off Oliver's shoulder without asking permission. 

"You guys climb?"

Daryl doesn't know if scrambling up out of a steep ravine while hallucinating really counts, but Oliver nods. "What about you?"

"Yeah. Doesn't look like it'll be too bad." Clint scratches at the stubble on his chin. "But just to be on the safe side, how's this? I'll go first, tie down on the other side, drop the rope, pull your packs up, and then you guys tie in. Might be easier for you if you're not off balance, y'know? And anything goes sideways, I'll be there to haul you up." 

Oliver's nodding, so despite himself, Daryl follows suit. 

They grab everything out of the SUV and lock the doors. In an afterthought, remembering something that Glenn had showed him, he flips the small door over the gas cap open. With any luck, anyone passing by looking for fuel will see it as a sign that the SUV's already been tapped. 

He follows the others down the rubble that's piled to the left of the road, one hand on the twisted guardrail for balance as they pick their way down to the water. There's only a four foot drop at the end, and the water's freezing, but they make it down just fine. 

Making it up is looking to be more of a problem. Clint makes the climb easily enough, yanking himself straight up with little finesse, and the bags as well, one by one. Oliver's probably the better climber, does some weird holds with his hands and twists his body in strange ways to get up there. 

He's a few feet from the top when he starts to cough, and he's starting to fall. Daryl splashes across like he's gonna _catch_ him or some shit, but the rope holds, and Oliver's got his grip on the bridge again a moment later. 

The rope drops down again once Oliver's up top, and Daryl realizes that he hadn't paid as much attention to the knots Clint had shown him as he'd thought he had. His feet are numb. It's only fifteen feet, though. He's dealt with worse with an arrow sticking out of him. And there hadn't been any rope- badly tied or not- to help him. 

It's slow going. He loses his footing every third step, and wrenches his shoulder when all of his weight is suddenly put on it before he's ready

He hadn't realized he'd shouted, but the rope's suddenly taut and he's being pulled up against the concrete. Grabbing hold where he can, he does what he can to help propel himself up to the top. He's about as graceful as a catfish on a boat floor when he finally flops over the ledge, skinning his arm in the process.

A foot and a half from his face, Clint's boots make a squelching noise as he steps forward and holds a hand out. His pride's taken enough of a beating already, and he's too tired to care, so Daryl grabs a hold and clambers to his feet. 

"That wasn't so bad, now, was it?" Clint laughs, probably because he can't see Oliver behind him on the ground, glaring daggers into the back of his head as he wipes his nose with his sleeve. Daryl rolls his eyes in solidarity, and it's startling, the way Oliver's face changes when he laughs.


	10. Chapter 10

They'd made enough racket getting up here that nobody's surprised when a dozen or so walkers start closing in on their location, but they're still far enough out that by the time they're within range, the three of them have caught their breath and have their arrows nocked. Without it being decided aloud, Oliver focuses on the center of the group. Drawing the recurve is harder than it has any right to be, though, with arms already sore from a climb that had no right taking that much out of him. Clint and Daryl flank from the sides, though, soon enough they're retrieving arrows, checking them for damage, wiping them down and putting them away. Start to finish, no more than five minutes. 

Nobody comments on the two shots it had taken him to get a solid hit on the third walker's head. He doesn't really think anything of it, though, until he catches Clint yanking one of Daryl's bolts out of a tree a few dozen yards up the road. 

The odds, in retrospect, had been a lot closer than they should've been; he's just glad he hadn't noticed until now. They would've been even worse if he'd been on his own. 

Despite the cold seeping in through his skin, the going actually does get start to get easier about a quarter mile down the road; efforts had been made to clear the road this close to Woodbury. It's not much farther, now. 

There's no guarantees of what they'll find there- there could be dozens of walkers on the other side of the barricades, but right now the town stands as an illusion of safety, the chance of shelter, and if they're lucky, maybe a few of the answers Clint's looking for. 

Daryl doesn't seem to share that opinion, however, given how far he's starting to lag behind. It's not just that he's sick, Oliver realizes; he's scanning the top of the walls with a clenched jaw.

Oliver slows down, intent on flanking Daryl's position, but Clint pulls ahead, and off to the side, gesturing that they should move to the other side of the road. A moment later, he's set his bag down at the base of a tree, which he starts to climb. 

It's tall enough to get him higher than the wall, and though it's not close enough for him to make the jump, he does reach the the top of the main trunk. Securing his footing, he draws his bow before standing up fully. 

Daryl's standing close enough that Oliver doesn't need to take his eyes off of Clint to feel the tension radiating off of him. Instead he tries to listen, keep an eye out. Tries to read Clint's body language for anything he might need to know. 

The coughing, when it starts, is worryingly loud, though Daryl's doing what he can to suppress it. The effort seems to be making his eyes water, and his breathing loses all rhythm as he chokes it down. 

Oliver readies his bow, turning around to check the trees behind them. If it's alerted anyone, or anything, he'll find out any minute now. 

His head swivels back to the front when he hears the rustling, but it's just Clint coming back down from the tree, then coming across to meet them, giving them a thumbs up. 

Daryl doesn't see it, bent over like he is, so Oliver touches him on the shoulder to get his attention. 

"All clear," he says, not actually intending to move his hand down over Daryl's shoulder blades. He can feel the spasms as Daryl stops trying to hold back, rough and jagged against his hand. He sounds terrible, and it's hard to tell if Daryl's got a fever, or Oliver's got chills, but he feels warm, even through his wet vest. 

Clint stops a few feet short of them, waits for Daryl to straighten up, and doesn't seem to think anything of finding Oliver's hand on Daryl's back- maybe it's strange that Oliver's the only one focused on it at all. He slips his hand back and pretends like it's not the first time in years that he'd touched someone without planning it carefully in advance.

"Got three walkers in there," Clint says, rocking back on his heels with a humorless smirk. "Or, well two and three quarters of one. Might want to go around, find another entrance."

Daryl straightens, suddenly, his face is pale, but his eyes are focused sharply. "Three quarters?"

"Missing a leg," Clint scowls in puzzlement at how quickly Daryl's expression shifts to _worried_ , but doesn't ask. "Young guy," he adds. "Fatigues."

"We could set up a distraction," Oliver suggests. "Draw whatever's in range here, then go around." Throwing rocks at the wall would make enough noise to draw anything within a one or two block range. 

"Defenses are weaker up on the northwest side," Daryl says, wheezing. "Easy enough to get in, and it's closer to where we want to be. Ain't been pretty, the last few times I been through there, but it's probably cleared out enough since." He pauses, regarding them both with an expression on his like there's something more, or maybe like he's holding something back. "Make better time going 'round the outside. Dunno if there'll be any less walkers, but if anyone's in there, it'll be easier to avoid them." 

Clint and Oliver confer with a glance. "Sounds good."

He just wishes he knew why it feels like Daryl's leading them into a trap, why they're _letting_ him, and why he's still thinking about Daryl's shoulders jutting against his hand. 

\--- 

Keeping the wall to their left, Clint keeps half an eye on the other two as they make their way north along the road, keeping close and staying silent. He'd kill for satellite imagery right now, but by some miracle, they encounter no walkers and no people. 

The defenses to their left are growing more ramshackle, however. It's likely that the sturdier walls blocking off the main road on the south side had been meant for the psychological well-being of the residents, more than anything else. Walkers don't care much about roads or the lack thereof, and the buildings are farther apart this far back. The space that had needed to be filled with fencing, pallets and doors from abandoned houses is wider. They've been overrun, Clint guesses, more than once before the town was abandoned. 

Spreading out, Clint's the first one to cross over into what he supposes must've originally been the agricultural and industrial area of the town. There's a picked-over lumber yard and a warehouse, a few sheds and a train yard that probably hadn't been used in decades. It's hard to tell what any of the buildings had been used for, but honestly, he wouldn't have been able to say even before everything had gone to seed. 

There's a wide open area that Oliver's stepping out into, and they spread out, cutting wide swaths, hoping to cover as much ground as possible. Except for Daryl. He's keeping to the edges, and maybe it's just that he trusts them to handle it, or maybe there's something he's trying not to see. 

Or maybe, he's just heading for the warehouse across the way. Stopping outside the door, he raises a hand to wave them over, only turning around enough to track their relative movements. If he keeps this up, though avoiding whatever it is he's avoiding, Clint figures he's going to have to ask. 

Oliver actually _does_ ask, with his eyes, but since Daryl's busy cutting the lock open, the question falls to Clint. 

He shakes his head. _No idea._

"Far as I know, this is where the lab would be," Daryl says, then steps back, hands paused mid-air, a few inches from the now unsecured door. "Shit. We gotta check something first."

"Everything okay?"

Daryl makes a non-committal noise, and picks up his crossbow again, heading along the front of the building and around to the side. There's a path beaten into the dirt, stronger than Clint would've expected, and when they make it to the back, he almost understands why. 

Or not. 

There are three fenced in cages, like a kennel or something, and two of them begin rippling sickly when the walkers trapped within notice their presence. The third is empty; the door leading inside is wide open. 

"Well," Daryl mutters, "This is the place."

"How d'you figure?"

"If he was testing on 'em, he'd need a supply, right?"

"You've been here before?"

"Yeah," Daryl snorts, he even goes so far as to smirk. "But I had a _bag_ on my head on the approach, and when we left it was dark and people were shooting."

"Why?"

Clint can't take his eyes off the kennels; it's getting easier, these days, not to get stuck staring at what's standing behind the fencing. The cages seem to be well made, but the noise is putting him on high alert. Nobody answers him, and he wonders briefly if his hearing aid's battery's already gone dead. He looks up to find Daryl shrugging. Oliver isn't even looking at them, he's staring into the yard, back gone tense and ready to draw, but there's nothing there. Just a beaten down circle of dirt, and a row of bleachers. 

Clint looks at the cages again, and back to what looks like an arena, where Oliver's crouched in the dirt, picking something small off the ground, and hazards a guess. He's not sure whether he's hoping he's wrong.

"Dog fighting?" 

Daryl shakes his head, squinting at the walkers, but Oliver straightens up, comes back. "People," he says, and shows them the tooth he's found. A molar, with a silver filling in it. 

"Shit," Daryl shrugs, barely glancing at it. "For all I know, that's one'a mine." 

\--- 

"You fought someone here?" Oliver's eyes are hard, a little angry, or maybe just confused.

"Yeah." It had been almost funny, for a second, but now Daryl's wishing he hadn't brought them back here. This entire place is messing with him, his brain's hurting too much to process anything. But the entire reason he'd come back here was to make sure he had the right place, and so that the others knew what they were heading into. 

"Once. Long story," Daryl mutters, cringing back from saying _my brother_ , and he doesn't know what that says about himself. "Most of the time, it was geeks versus whoever the Governor didn't like that week."

The matter's settled enough that he doesn't have to do any more talking as they head back 'round to the front. Clint goes first, and he's already got an arrow loosed by the time Daryl's stepping in, trying to adjust to the dark and a stench that's sharp enough to cut through his congestion. They're in an office, and the door leading out into the back is wide open. Clint's about to go through it when Daryl has a better idea. 

"Nah, man. Hold up." There's half a flight of steps leading down onto the warehouse floor, giving them a good view over the pallets and shelves. There are a few forklifts and a truck corralled over by the garage door to the right. On the far end of the room, he can see the three doors that lead out to the kennels.

He shuts the door, not particularly quietly, hoping to draw the geeks with the sound. The glass window set into it gives them a very good view of four distinct areas of movement inside. Might not be all of them, but taking out four in a controlled setting beats finding them out in the middle of the room. 

They're coming from varied enough starting points that there's thirty seconds or more between attacks; there's no point in even keeping the door closed in between. Knives don't catch the way arrows do, and the process is simple. He takes out the first one, but Clint must not like what he's seeing when he looks at him, because he pulls him back, grabs the knife, and finishes off the rest. 

Oliver's leaning against the desk, clearly exhausted, and really, Daryl's not that far behind. He's winded, just from the exertion of handling _one_. 

Clint, on the other hand, he still doesn't look like he's caught anything, and what's worse, he's being _nice_ about it. 

"You guys stick here, check the desk for anything that looks promising. I'll clear the lab."

"I'm going with you."

Clint shakes his head. "The front door was locked, and the cages aren't that big, right? And all the other doors are closed. I'm guessing if the locals knew what was going on here, even if it's just the zombie fights, it wasn't high on their priority list to come back to."

Daryl needs some water soon. He's pretty sure his skepticism is being undercut by how hoarse he sounds. "How d'you know?"

"Cause this is the first I've seen of the place, and I _already_ don't want to be here." Pausing in the doorway, he looks over his shoulder at the both of them. "And for cryin' out loud, you _do_ know there's cold meds in the bags, right? And drink some fucking water or something."

\---

This is far from the first desk Oliver's rifled through, and it's habit more than anything that has him half expecting to find piles of invoices and stacks of printouts from the dead computer. 

He does, but whoever's been using them has been economical, after a fashion. The backs of every page are written on, scribbled on, drawn on, and none of it makes any sense. It looks like research, possibly- well, it looks like the scribblings of an insane person, but only because it's obviously exactly what he's looking for. 

On the shelves behind him are a stack of dog-eared books. Medical dictionaries, a few books on rabies, and a library copy of "Anatomy and Physiology for Dummies" that's held together mostly with tape. 

It's not until he opens the drawer underneath the computer monitor that he finds the notebooks. He pulls the stack out and sets them on top of the pile of loose notes, and resumes his rummaging. 

"Filing cabinets are all local work orders, invoices, that sort of thing," Daryl says, sliding shut another filing cabinet drawer and opening the next one. "Looks like they were re-using the paper. Hang on."

He pulls out two notebooks, written in the same hand as the stack from the desk. The first has been titled, in marker, "Summary of Best Guesses and Wild Conjectures Based on Observed Data."

The second one is exactly the same, word for word, as far as he can tell, but maybe it's just the fever, or the meds kicking in. He hands them back to Daryl, to be sure. 

"What're you talking about?" Daryl's eyebrow twitches tiredly, obviously humoring him. 

"I need to know if I'm losing my mind."

There are two notebooks. Side by side, they say the same thing. Someone had been making a manual backup. And even though he knows that neither book contains anything like the information his father had recorded, t's all just feeling a little too familiar.

Daryl, as he's rummaging around, even finds a third notebook, slid down between the filing cabinet and the book shelf. It's missing a few of the most recent entries, but whoever had even gone this far is meticulous. 

Maybe it's just the too-familiar sensation that comes when contemplating the existence of duplicate notebooks, but Oliver's suddenly just _tired_. The effort to go give anything more than a cursory glance seems insurmountable.

Maybe he'll feel better if he stands up, gets some blood moving around. He picks up his bow and goes to the door to look for Clint, and meets him coming through the door. He looks green.

"Found a bunch of _ugly_ down there, you don't even want to know. _God_ , I stink."

"I don't smell anything." 

"Then I envy your virus." He closes the door behind him, then crosses the room to the windows, opening one up and standing next to it. "Found a table back there, there was a dead walker strapped to it. It was... The only thing still living in there were the flies. It was like a horror movie, only, well, the monster was already dead. Nothing useful, though. Just a bunch of gory equipment that I'm gonna be seeing in my nightmares for the rest of my life."

Oliver nods. "Think we have something."

"Yeah?" Clint crosses back to the table, stepping over Daryl's legs,. Apparently he's decided that now that they're all together again with walls on all four sides, he can zone out in relative peace. 

Clint sits down at the desk and starts flipping through the notebooks. After a few minutes he glances distractedly up at Oliver. "This might take a while, and here's as good a place as any to crash out. Might as well get comfortable." 

The office isn't particularly large, and the cool air from the windows is filling it rapidly. Oliver's too tired to fight Clint on why it's even open. After a minute of hesitation that he's glad Clint isn't noticing, he slides down the wall a few feet from Daryl. 

\--- 

It's dark when Clint finally looks up, trying to make some sense out of anything at all that he's read. 

The notes are a mess. They're exactly what he would've written, trying to keep up with Dr. Banner or someone. Equations he can't begin to decipher, abbreviations that don't mean anything at all to him. Lots of references to page numbers that he's not feeling up to tracking down, though they're most likely sitting in the pile on the shelf behind him. 

The duplicate notebooks are a little easier to understand, as if the writer, Dr. Mamet most likely, had intended on sharing the information at some point and made efforts at legibility. It makes sense; scattered throughout the early entries are a few references to talking to people at the CDC.

But then the lines must have all gone dead, because the handwriting had become more hurried again.

There are two sides to the research that intertwine, and they're exactly what Clint had suspected they'd be. How walkers die, and can people be saved.

In the journal, dated April of last year, there's just a few lines, dated on the seventh. 

_The Governor has ordered the yard behind the lab to be cleared; his intent seems to be to combine the assertion of control over the populace with the development of a steady supply of test subjects. I'm sorry. I'm so goddamned sorry._

The results of the walker starvation experiments, written out in clearer detail, are actually better than Clint had been expecting. Once the virus isn't getting any fuel, it starts digesting what muscle tissue is left in the host. Apparently, the digestion never actually _stops_ , but the ligaments and muscles are too weakened to move. Depending on the weather, apparently, it can take anywhere from three days to five and a half weeks. 

Each new entry on the progress grows more and more detached, same as the timing log kept in the back. Age, gender, weight, and a time stamp. No names, just ranges of time, varying between about two minutes, and nine hours. There are notes in the margins, on some of the entries. _Had a cold_ , or _reported not feeling well the day prior to being bitten_. Beyond that, there's little difference between Mamet's tallies.

Clint supposes there's not much difference. The logs are just tracking how long a thing takes to die. There's not much room for panache, and no real need for elaboration.

Mamet does list two names in his notes, a man and a woman. Volunteers. _Maureen and I talked about fly fishing._ And, _Thomas prayed the entire time. I wish him luck_. The former, he'd noted, had been elderly. The latter, just suicidal. 

The entries most likely to discuss the Governor's angry reactions to lack of results all involve attempts to cure the virus, and the listing of destroyed equipment in the wake of those reactions would probably be much worse, if Manet'd had anything to work with in the first place. 

_I'm a plant geneticist, Jim, not an epidemiologist._ It's scribbled in the margins of one such entry. It's heavily underlined, and the letters are carved in so heavily that they've broken the page in four different places. Clint thinks it's a line from Star Trek, but he's not sure. It occurs to him that Phil would know, but. Phil doesn't know anything, any more. 

This is as much thinking down _that_ particular road as he'll allow himself to do. 

There's a lot more that he's yet to piece together, because he's a goddamned _assassin_ , Jim, not even a plant geneticist, but what he's got so far is enough to give him pause.

_It's become clear, after the deaths through causes unrelated to walker attacks, of which three were other natural causes and four were from violent trauma, that it is the death of the individual itself that leads to symptoms being expressed. It is important to further note that of the natural causes listed, there is every indication that at least one of them stemmed, initially, from a case of pneumonia. The onset of pneumatic symptoms in that case developed much more quickly, and the subject died within days. The onset of post-death symptoms was likewise accelerated, with a death-to-waking span of thirty-seven seconds._

Clint looks down at the floor, and really _worries_ about the men sleeping there for the first time.

\--- 

Oliver's eyelashes are glued together when he attempts to open them, and maybe it's a warning that he shouldn't even try. The rest of him hasn't woken up yet, and he's soaked, mostly freezing. He's sweat out everything he's had, his mouth's dry, glued shut as firmly as his eyes. His stomach lurches uncomfortably when he tries to curl in on himself, but there's no warmth to retain anyway. Just a thin strip at the back of his head. 

It takes a long time, maybe, and the hint of movement that he's pretty sure isn't his own against his back, to figure out that there's someone there. He goes absolutely still, but whoever it is, they're not attacking. Daryl, he's leached all the heat from him. He's burning up. 

There's no wind. They're inside. 

Clint's- he's somewhere. He should get up, try to look for him.

He's too tired. 

The hot strip down his spine is close enough to comfortable. He might press his back against Daryl's more firmly, he might not. 

He's passing out again already. 

\--- 

Daryl's trying to shove himself up from the floor- it's cool down there, he doesn't want to- and the first thing he finds is Clint crouching in front of him, looking worried.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." Clint shrugs. "I dunno. You two." He's got water, and some more cold meds, and Daryl thinks that Clint could glare at him like that all he wanted, really, if it means getting something for the low-grade explosion happening in the center of his brain. 

He closes his eyes, and a moment or an hour later, flinches at the feeling of a hand on his face. 

It's gone before he can even muster the question, before he can even look. He feels the motion more than anything, Oliver's hand snapping up to bat Clint's hand away.

"Sorry, man," Clint raises his hands, rocks back on his heels as Oliver resettles himself. "Was just trying to take your temperature. See if you were doing any better." 

Daryl can't track Oliver's muffled response, because it's coming from the vicinity of his own ribs, where Oliver's just buried his face. 

"How the hell are you not sick yet?" If Daryl talks like it's not fucking _weird_ , what Oliver's doing, maybe it won't be. And he's just getting comfortable, not shifting to give Oliver room. The leather covering Oliver's back feels nice and cold, that's all. "Not that I'm wishin' it on you or anything." _Much_.

Clint shrugs, guiltily. "Up until two weeks ago, I was spending most of my time with asshole doctors jabbing best guesses and vaccinations into my ass." If he's trying to make a joke, his expression's not doing him any favors. Biting his lip, he crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. "Your camp. Don't suppose you've got anyone resembling a doctor?"

"Resembling? Yeah." Far as he knows, anyway. Hershel had been alive when he'd left, but that don't mean shit, these days.

"Good."

It's not, though, not if he's thinking there's a need. But Daryl's too tired to ask, and he doesn't want to talk. He just wants to close his eyes and pretend to sleep for a minute. Get a handle on things without having to explain it to anyone. 

\---

Getting Daryl and Oliver moving and into the truck had been more of an undertaking than Clint would've wanted, especially given his own lack of sleep, but attempting to wait it out in the office any longer hadn't been an option.

He needs backup, and the closest thing for miles is at the prison up the road. Clint drives toward it as fast as he can manage, keeping his eyes on the road and pinching himself to stay awake. When he needs a boost of adrenaline, he'll let himself glance back through the rearview and let himself worry. When that doesn't work, the frustration from another failed phone call attempt works just as well.

The fifth or sixth time he checks, Oliver's awake enough to meet his eyes, and he's trying to sit up. Neither of them say anything about the fact that Daryl's practically got his head on Oliver's shoulder. 

"You doin' all right? I could try driving for a bit."

It's a bad idea, but thankfully, a moot one. There, just up ahead, the trees are thinning out and Clint can just make out the shape of watchtowers breaking the sky above a large, sprawling complex. 

It's the prison. "Nah," he tries to sound reassuring as he slows the truck down. "We're here."


	11. Chapter 11

Glenn's muttering apologies that Daryl can't track before he's even had the chance to open his own damned mouth, looking absurdly glad to see him as he sets to opening the gate. It's only fitting that Daryl's first words are enough to make him look worried all over again. 

"We're cool, but hang on a sec. Got a problem."

"What?" Like he hadn't already scoped them out on the way in, Glenn's eyes shoot back to the truck, where Clint's keeping an eye on the nearer geeks and Oliver's got one foot on the ground, but doesn't seem intent on doing anything more. 

"Me and the guy in the truck are sick. Might want to warn people to keep clear."

Glenn frowns, turning to glance behind him, but Rick's already rushing down the hill. He looks worried, as he's moving, but by the time he comes to a stop next to Glenn, his expression's been wiped back to neutral. 

"Daryl?" He gestures at the gate. "What's going on? Why are-"

"Met some new people, they're solid, but two of us been sick for a few days." Apologies aside, what he's gotta say next, he doesn't want to do in front of Glenn. But pride's a rare commodity, these days. "Got anywhere out of the way we can ride it out?"

Rick takes an abortive step forward, his eyes set firmly on Clint, who's pacing lazily around the truck. Oliver's still in the back seat, and though he's got the door open and one foot on the ground, the glare reflected in the window hides his face from here. 

After a few seconds, Rick actually does come closer to the gate, though he's still keeping a few feet back. It's not so far, though, that he's liable to miss anything on Daryl's face. 

"You'll vouch for them?"

Daryl nods, takes a breath to start making introductions, but there are shouts coming from up the hill, by the laundry line that's been set out. Carl's storming off and away; Carol and a teenager Daryl doesn't know are hot on his heels. 

Rick's seeing it too, and with a distracted nod, heads over to take the other side of the gate. On the other side, Glenn does the same, preparing to wrench it open. He looks exhausted.

"Any of you good to keep watch tonight?"

"We can be." Wondering what he's missed, Daryl glances at Rick, who's glaring in Carl's general direction before pulling his attention back to Daryl enough to call over. "Northern tower's secure. You guys get over there, me or Hershel will be around in a bit to check in."

Daryl climbs into the driver's seat, Clint gets in back with Oliver. By the time they're ten feet inside, Rick's already heading up the hill, in the direction that Carl had gone. 

Glenn nods back at Daryl as they pass, waving him towards the access road, but Daryl already knows where he's going. 

He just doesn't know what he's walking back into. 

\--- 

It only takes Oliver a few minutes to catch his breath after climbing the stairs, but the exertion feels good, and the view of the hills from the room at the top is stunning. A walker stumbles out from under the cover of trees, disappearing into the brush again a moment later, and he tries not to let that ruin the image.

There's not much here, just two chairs and a long flat desk built into the wall, and enough room on the floor, he supposes, for the three of them to roll out their sleeping bags. There's a flare gun sitting next to the radio equipment, and underneath, against the wall, is a box of rounds. Given how secure the rest of the place seems, it's a little odd to find the post unmanned. 

"The view from the tower is good enough that during the day, there ain't much point," Daryl explains, when he asks. "Only got this part of the complex secured a week or so before I left." He's distracted, for a moment, watching open the door and step outside onto the gangway that surrounds the windowed room. The wind that comes in is almost cold. "Far as I know, everything on the grounds inside the fence is cleared, now, but it looks like the fence on the southwest side might've taken a hit. I'll check with the guys when they come up."

Oliver takes the chair next to the one Daryl's dragging back, sits down heavily and only narrowly avoids kicking him. Through the glass behind him, Oliver can see Clint grimacing at something that's lost behind the tower of radio equipment. Probably his phone. "So what's the plan?" 

Daryl shrugs, leans back with closed eyes. "Wait for Rick to come up an' tell us. Sleep. Keep watch or something." 

On the south side of the tower, Clint's looking more industrious, unfolding something black, setting it out on the ledge outside. Messing around with velcro straps and crouching down again, out of sight. Curiosity getting the better of him, Oliver stands, then goes out the door for a better look.

Clint looks up at him, grinning like he knows he's being caught fighting a lost cause. 

"Solar charger. Signal booster. Another day or so, I might get enough juice to get through."

"And if you don't?" It's a shitty thing to say, and he knows it, but Clint shrugs like he's been expecting the question.

"Try again day after tomorrow. And the day after that." He holds up the phone, which he's plugged in to the charger, so that Oliver can see the screen. There's a small icon in the corner, right where it should be, that looks like an upside down wifi signal indicator. Surprisingly, it's showing the equivalent of one bar. "When that's gone, then I'll stop. Director's orders."

"Weird."

"What's weird?" Clint looks at him, because apparently his patience knows no bounds.

Oliver shrugs. "That the world's ended and you're still on the clock."

"It hasn't ended," Clint shrugs, his mouth twisting. "It just hasn't been saved yet."

He remembers the footage. Tony Stark, all over the news. "And you can't save it, you'll avenge it, right?" He'd met Stark at a party, once. Before New York, even before the island. The small talk they'd made had seemed inane, when he'd thought about after seeing the clips upon his return. Now it just seems insane, and a little depressing. If there are any other rich kids left in the world, they're probably not talking about expensive cars. And it's not like Oliver misses it, really, but sometimes the nostalgia just twists around to backhand him. It's not just _before_. It's _before_ the before. He's got two lifetimes between who he'd been then and who he is now. 

Clint just snorts. "Fuck," he says, shaking his head. "I wonder if any of them are even still _alive_."

And the thing is, Oliver's figuring out, is that when Clint says things like that? He sounds like he's still _hoping_.

\--- 

"So then," Rick leans on the railing, squinting out at the trees, but the brunt of his attention hasn't left Clint. On Hershel's orders, he's careful to stand upwind, just in case Clint's actually a carrier of whatever the old man's checking out inside the tower. "You were in New York?"

"Yeah. For all the good it did the long run.'" If he sounds bitter, he doesn't mean to. Thor was gone, and Stark had died months ago. Nobody knows where Rogers has gone, or if he's even still alive, and if the latter isn't true, Clint doesn't want to know. 

The official line on Banner was that he'd died, but last Clint had heard, he'd actually hidden himself away in one of SHIELD's bunkers to research the virus. Banner chosen the site because of its proximity to one of the containment chambers they'd built to imprison the Big Guy, and seeing as how world wasn't short on things that could piss a man off, it was probably seeing a fair amount of use. 

What all of it meant, though, was that as far as the Avengers Initiative was concerned, the big guns had cleared out and left it all down to a handful of very mortal, comparatively useless, human beings. The bitch of it is, though, the rest of the world? Still probably holding out hope. Clint knows what's coming next, and he does what he can to hold it off before Rick even gets the chance to ask. 

"We've lost a lot of people. Only one that's left that I'm sure of is Bruce Banner."

Rick frowns, shaking his head in confusion, and Clint swallows a sudden spike of rage. 

"Also known as the Hulk," he says, trying to ignore the recognition dawning on Rick's face. "The man's actually a genius, and if anyone can figure out what's going on, he can. That's why we came out here. We were tracking down any other scientists we could find, trying to find any other lines of research that Banner hadn't thought of."

He lets it hang there, for a minute. Rick doesn't need him to spell it out, that they've reached the bottom of the barrel. But Clint's not expecting him to shrug it off. 

"It is what it is," Rick straightens, crossing his arms to look at him while nodding to himself. "Okay. Daryl's vouched for you and your friend, and that carries a certain amount of weight. Far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to stay, long as you need. But everyone carries their own weight."

"Understood, sir."

Rick snorts, smirking down at his ratty uniform shirt. "You got any sort of plan from here?"

"We got some notes from a lab in Woodbury," he says. "Could use some help trying to make sense of them." He backs around the corner of the catwalk, nodding for Rick to follow, and points out the equipment he's set up. "I'm trying to get in contact with any of my superior officers to see what my orders are, find out what's going on elsewhere. No luck yet, no guarantees that I'm not tilting at windmills. If I don't hear from them, I'm going to need to move on. Head up to Rochester, Minnesota."

Rick's eyebrows reach his hairline, but he doesn't ask why. 

"That's a long way with winter coming."

Clint nods, doesn't his time in in Finland and Russia. "In the meantime, if it helps, I'm solid with an arrow." There's no point in sugar-coating it. "More of a sniper than a hunter, but I can carry my own weight and then some. Oliver's solid too."

"And he's the same Oliver Queen that-"

"Yeah. Hell of a shot. Good guy." 

Rick shakes his head in disbelief, and Clint wonders what the man's heard about him. Tries to guess, not for the first time in the past few minutes, if Rick can tell with a glance whether a man's more used to shooting people than animals. Whether he'd care, either way.

\--- 

"So. It seems you've had an interesting time," Hershel says, when it's Daryl's turn. The paper-cloth mask covering his mouth and nose seems ridiculous, all things considered, but the eyes looking at him over the mask are tired. Oliver's poking at the radio equipment, only half listening now that his checkup- which they're all pretending isn't an interrogation- is completed. Outside, Clint's talking to Rick; they seem to be getting along well enough. 

He drags his attention back to Hershel. "You could say that. How's things been going around here?" 

"Same as always. Lost a few three days ago. Bunch of walkers piled up on the southeastern fence."

"Anyone I know?"

"Open your mouth," Hershel shrugs, holding the pen light up and looking for something that ain't right. "Woodbury folk."

"Hmm." It's all he can manage, and only partially because of the examination. It's hard to find the sympathy. Mostly, he's just wondering if any of the ones who'd gone down, had happened to be in the crowd when he'd been ordered to fight his brother to the death. 

He wonders if right now's a good time to mention the head he'd nearly brought back with him, and decides he'd rather Rick hear it second than hold out on Hershel. The cell phone with the picture's outside, getting charged up, but he can get at it easily enough if he needs to. "Ah. The Governor's dead."

"I thought he might be," Hershel says, his eyes darting up over his mask to meet Daryl's. "Way you took off, I wasn't figuring on you returning empty handed. Michonne's not going to be pleased when she gets back." 

Shit. "She went looking for him?"

"About a day after you did. Pretty sure she had it in her head that you were going to get yourself in trouble. Your paths never crossed?"

"Nah, man. Sorry. Ain't seen her."

Hershel shakes his head. He knows as well as Daryl does that the odds of her giving up, moving on, or letting the trail go cold, are slim; what's left just doesn't need voicing. 

Hershel cocks his head in Oliver's direction, changing the subject. "You going through the same symptoms he told me about?"

"Near enough. Just the flu?"

"Nothing's _just_ anything, any more," Hershel stands, rubbing his hands on his pants. "But if he's starting to feel better, maybe we can let you all down in a day or two. Gonna want to keep an eye on..." he gestures vaguely out the window.

"Clint?"

"Yes, thank you. Maybe he'll luck out, maybe he won't. Other than that, there's not a whole lot we can do, I'm afraid." He gestures at the windows and the sleeping bags, currently shoved under the desk. "We held onto your things, moved it into one of the cells for you so nothing would wander off off. There's four bunks in there, plenty of room for all of you when you're ready." Daryl blinks. He hadn't left anything behind that he couldn't live without, but it's unexpectedly kind, and kindness ain't free.

He knows he's being ungrateful, but if Hershel's noticed, he ain't letting on, and looks over at Oliver "In the meantime, you fellas going to be warm enough up here?"

Oliver shakes his hair out of his eyes and sets aside the manual he's been thumbing through; when Hershel stands, he follows suit, shakes his hand. "It's better than a lot of places I've crashed. Thank you. For everything." 

The rest of the afternoon isn't much of anything. Daryl dozes off. He leans on the railing and points out the people he knows to Oliver and Clint, trying to be unaware of the people looking back up at them. They're probably just doing more or less the same thing he's doing, but he can't be sure. Apart from Carol, who'd come up to the base of the tower, grinning and shouting up at him to get his skinny ass down there as soon as possible, there aren't many who'd be looking up this way if it was just him, standing here.

Oliver's got an interesting reputation, but it's Clint's that's worrying. The man runs with superheroes, and there's an awful lot of hope and expectation that rides on things like that. 

By the time Rick's calling up from the bottom of the stairs with a cooler in one hand and a thermos in the other, telling him to come down to grab the grub Carol and Maggie had fixed up for them all, Daryl's been expecting the conversation that comes with it for hours. When it hadn't come up earlier, he'd just figured they'd all decided to just not talk about it at all. 

Turns out, he'd only been half right. Rick, looks like, was just being diplomatic.

"So, I apologize, Daryl, but I've got to ask," Rick says. "You have it on good faith that these two are who they say they are?"

"The fuck? _Yeah_ , I'm sure." He's aware that the others can hear them, and given the way Rick winces at his volume, he does too. Good. He _wants_ Oliver and Clint to know. "You know that part in Robin Hood where the arrow gets shot through, split down the middle? They topped it. My word good enough for you, or d'you need proof?"

"Okay," Rick says, raising up his hands to stall him, and he allows it because he's fighting back another round of coughs, and because he hadn't been intendin' on actually opening that can of worms. "Hear me out. You vouched for Merle, too, and look where that got us. That's what some people are saying."

"Yeah, well. My bein' an idiot once shouldn't damn _them_." He snorts, shaking his head, and sets up to state his case. "Look, man. You want them here. Clint's already got it in his head that heading north sounds like a good plan, thinks he might be able to fix everything, but the snow's gonna start in at some point, and-"

"I hear you, and I didn't come out here to put anyone out on their asses. They seem like good people, and hell, Daryl. We've got folks here that probably _shot_ at us at Woodbury." If Daryl was a better person, he might not be surprised that Rick had noticed, not that he's intending on admitting it. 

"Point is, those people are working out fine, and your guys up there? Never pulled anything half that troubling, far as we're concerned. Guess what I'm saying is that we've got some room to trust 'em." He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and when he continues, his voice has gone quiet. "I just wanted to let y'all know the lay of the land. Didn't want anyone getting blindsided. Here." He hands over the cooler and the thermos. "Probably want to get that up before it gets cold."

Daryl nods, thinks he mumbles, "Cool, thanks," or something like that, and nods, turning back towards the stairs. Before he can head up, though, Rick's talking again. 

"For what it's worth, even if I'm wrong and it all goes to hell, I've got your back, and I'm not the only one."

Apparently, Rick's trust- surprising though it is- ain't enough to stop his thoughts from running full bore down a bad path as he climbs the stairs. First it's Michonne, who might've gone over the fence to help his sorry ass, and then it's Merle, and all the same old shit that comes with it.

First it's how complicated things had gotten between him and Merle when he'd been alive, and everyone's fake concern after he'd died. Followed by how he'd freaked out on Glenn for poking at his last nerve just a little too damned much, and how Michonne still ain't back yet. 

And now he's just thinking about how it'll all play out when Oliver and Clint start hearing for themselves how fucked up things had been, how fucked up Those Dixon Boys were. 

Maybe it's just that they're the first two people he's met, possibly in decades, without the family name getting in the way. He hadn't even thought to appreciate the respite from it when he'd had the chance. 

Upstairs, Clint's smirking at him while Oliver's looking at the radio manual again, pretending not to have heard anything at all. 

"Got dinner," Daryl says, opening the cooler to feel the heat radiating off the food and hoping like hell that nobody's wanting to ask him anything right now. He might not be done thinking, but he's _definitely_ done talking, for the time being.


	12. Chapter 12

The next few days drag on less than Oliver would've expected. They sleep, they eat, and keep watch. They get bored, and start going stir-crazy. They bicker about stupid shit, sometimes they talk. Clint only checks his phone every few hours. 

After the better part of a week, the quarantine is lifted, and Rick tells them they're welcome to move down into the prison. 

Oliver doesn't care one way or the other, to be honest, but Rick's got a baby, and as they head down the hall to check out the available accommodations on the first floor, he finds himself gritting his teeth against the sharp noise of it's crying. 

Clint manages to hold out longer; it's not until he's looking through the bars and into the cell Rick's showing them that the grin drops from his face and he becomes suddenly fascinated by his own feet. 

Daryl's reluctance is the only one that's vocalized, however; he mutters something Oliver can't quite catch about the landing. 

"You're welcome to it, but there's a lot more traffic running through there than there was when you took off." Rick looks around at the three of them and then to Hershel, conferring silently. Oliver's the only one looking back at him, and he's about to give in, say that the cell's fine, they'll deal with it, when Rick shrugs. 

"Guess there ain't no reason the three of you can't stay up in the tower until we get block B sorted out." Rick says, though he's clearly not wild about the idea. "Anyone else gets sick, or you three get sick of handling the watch every night, we'll figure something else out. Deal?"

"Works for me," Daryl shrugs, and Clint nods in earnest agreement. 

The only push back they get is from Glenn, who falls into step with Daryl out in the yard. The kid looks to be in his mid-twenties, and Oliver still wouldn't be certain that _this_ is the same guy who'd gotten in a fistfight with Daryl, were it not for the fact that the two of them are so _polite_ to each other. 

"You still need to come down and hang with everyone, though. At least eat dinner," he shrugs, but it's forced, like maybe he's only half-joking. "Otherwise, people are going to start thinking that you're the jailers, and we're the prisoners."

\--- 

It takes a week or so, but everyone's initial wariness eventually starts to melt. Now that the quarantine's lifted, the three of them spend most of their days down in the yard shoring up defenses, organizing stockpiles of supplies, heading out with one group or another to gather what they can from where they can. 

Oliver's surprised to find that the people here have rigged up washing facilities in what used to be a garage. Right now, it's just a couple of metal tubs that mean there's always use for another hand hauling water from the river, but there are three barrels that are usually close enough to full. Kevin Johnson, a tiny, quiet guy, has rigged manual pumps that push water from the barrels into a large drum that sits on top of a wood-burning stove. 

Oliver spends the better part of an afternoon moving parts around, trying to help troubleshoot the pump mechanism that moves the water from the tank to the tub itself, and honestly thinks that just using a bucket would be easier, but it's not a bad way to kill time. 

Clint, more often than not, gets corralled into helping prepare meals, once it's discovered that not only does he not mind cooking, he's actually very good at it. It's just as well, given how distracted he gets during the actual _hunting_. He gets bored, and then he starts _talking_. He'd scared away the game, the first few times they'd gone out, often enough that Daryl had been about ready to stick an arrow in him himself, last time. 

He still tries to check in with his people daily, but there's less sun, now that the weather's turning, and the solar chargers are taking longer to fuel the phone than they did last week. For the most part, though, he buries his frustration well, for the most part. It's not until their third week in that he shoves everything off the balcony, fueled by exhaustion and alcohol, and honestly, it's a relief. Oliver's been starting to wonder if he's even human. _Nobody_ is that patient. 

When he says as much the next morning, once Clint's returned from sheepishly gathering up the miraculously unbroken equipment, Clint laughs. 

"Spent three weeks crouching on a rooftop for my target to show, once," he says. "Shot him twice as much as I needed to, just for keeping me waiting. Fury ever picks up and gets his ass out here, I'm gonna empty out my quiver first, and then I'm coming for yours."

There are enough people here, and enough concern about the oncoming winter, that forays for resources happen every few days. Oliver forces himself to volunteer to scout ahead for whatever group's heading out that day, despite himself. The silent movement of armed people, watching the trees, still reminds him a little too much of the soldiers who'd searched for him on the island. Back when he'd been the only enemy in the area, back before the world had made enemies of absolutely everyone. 

Given the choice, Oliver just heads out with Daryl. They check the tracks and the traps and they don't talk, much. When the hunt goes well, everyone in the camp goes to bed with full stomachs and there's enough left over to save for later. Game's getting scarce in these parts, though, and pretty soon they're going to have to start planning for overnight treks if they're going to make it until spring. 

Besides. Daryl doesn't scowl as much as he does when he's down in the yard. His shoulders don't hunch in the way they've tended to, since arriving, and he doesn't look like so much like he's trying to blend into the woodwork. Apart from Carol, don't seem to be many people he seems to want to know around here. 

It's rare that the three of them are in the same place at the same, during the day, but the three of them tend to start gravitating towards each other at dinner, heading up to the tower together for the watch, afterwards. With nobody up there but the three of them, Clint doesn't force his grins quite so hard, and Daryl doesn't avoid them as often. 

One takes first watch, one second, and the other one has the entire night off. The rotation sets itself up quickly, almost without comment. As cramped as it is up in the tower, there's only room enough on the floor for two narrow mattresses, dragged up from the cell block. It's just as well that nobody, these days, expects to get a night of uninterrupted sleep; there's no avoiding noise and accidental elbows in the side whenever the first and second shifts are changing out. 

Sometimes, _none_ of them can sleep. It usually happens when there's been too-close a call between someone in the camp, and someone who isn't anyone, anymore. They just drag the sleeping bags out onto the catwalk, sit down, and pass around one of the bottles for a little while. Not enough to get drunk. Just enough to take the edge off, until one of them can start making jokes about something that happened last week, or start arguing about movies they saw a lifetime ago. 

One the night it had actually snowed again- which, to hear Daryl bitch about it, shouldn't have been happening at all this early in the year, regardless of whether or not it was going to stick- nobody had even bothered trying to sleep. Oliver had sat on the table inside the tower, his back against the radio equipment, trying to see past the wet clumps melting against the windows. Past the glass, there hadn't been much to see; the prison yard was empty and the few walkers outside the fence were mired in the mud. There'd been nothing to take his attention off the weather-induced bickering happening behind him. He'd started debating taking his chances up on the goddamned roof by hour two, and if Clint hadn't dozed off by hour three, he might've shoved both of them off of it. 

It's not home, exactly, but it's a routine. It's good. Sometimes, standing out on the balcony at night, three stories above the ground, he can pretend that everything down there can't reach them. 

The illusion doesn't last for long.


	13. Chapter 13

It's been weeks of trying, and it's just habit, now, more than anything, that makes Clint continue. 

He's exhausted. The people here, Rick, Hershel, Carol, they're great. They're just _not the right people_. 

He doesn't know what he's supposed to be doing here, and there's literally no place on Earth that he can just fuck off to. 

Still. It is what it is, and there are still two satellites above, somewhere, so he unplugs the phone from the charger, makes the call, and fiddles with the fabric covering of the solar charger mat. Looking down into the yard, he watches Daryl and Oliver talking with Rick's kid as they skin the deer they'd caught last night. Carl's got his usual too-serious expression on his face, but it looks like he's paying attention. Trying to learn. 

It's weird, what school looks like these days. 

Watching Daryl wipe his hands on a rag, he starts talking, not allowing himself to wonder whether if all his previous calls have filled up the communications buffer already. He'd never even thought to ask Hill what the storage was for the system. He pictures the black-ops equivalent of an answering machine, its light blinking red in an abandoned office.

It's the usual. Name, authentication code, location. Status update same as yesterday. He's alive, has a stockpile of data from Mamet's research that might be of use if anyone's still alive to be interested in it. 

He leaves it there, these days. It's not like he's forgotten about Phil and Natasha's deaths. It just makes him look crazy. Nobody's said anything, but it had made Oliver nervous, the last few times he'd overheard him talking about it. Having nothing more to add, he starts to sign off. 

That's when the static jumps out at him over the line, and this is getting ridiculous. He'd just changed his hearing aid batteries yesterday. 

But then he hears it. 

"Director Fury, authentication code Sugar Hotel 7, Delta 8981. Don't fucking hang up, Barton. We copy."

It's an hallucination. He's finally, completely, cracked. But throwing the phone over the fence won't change what he thinks he's just heard. 

"Holy shit," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face as he turns away from the yard. Whatever this is, he doesn't need witnesses right now. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

\--- 

Carl isn't the only kid milling around the prison, not even the only kid that's massively fucked up by everything that's gone down this year. He is, however, the only one who Gramps would've liked, not that Daryl's planning on mentioning it. The endorsement of a man who, when not running around with his militia buddies, had spent the last few years of his life preparing for the Second Coming of Our Lord and Savior ain't exactly something the kid needs to be saddled with.

Most of the time, Carl just keeps to himself and stares at everyone like he's watching them on television, like they're not even real. But he's been hanging 'round a lot more, the past few days. Ain't the kid himself that's the issue- he's been putting more effort into learning how to subsist than anyone here, and he ain't squeamish. It's Rick that's the problem. He ain't said two words about it, but the odds that he'll thrilled to find out his kid's been hanging with the likes of Daryl ain't too good. It's going to come to a head, at some point. As long as Rick makes it back. 

He doesn't want to think about it. Would've been out there despite himself, if he'd known they'd be gone this long. It's making everyone twitchier than usual. 

Today, as they're working, the kid's asking a lot of questions about hunting, about traps and ammunition and that sort of thing, and almost all of it's practical. Deer, rabbits, birds. It doesn't take long for him to change the topic to walkers, and then, unnervingly, to people. 

"They're easier dead than they are alive," Oliver says, then his eyes go wide like he realizes that he's just said it to a kid who's like _ten years old_ , while holding a knife with hands that are streaked with blood. Carl almost grins, lookin' up at him. 

"I mean." Oliver continues, "that they're hunting you, sure, but they're more like scavengers. They don't have the mental processing power that, say, a wolf has. Far as anyone can tell, they're still just running with normal human senses. They're a bitch when they get in close, but much easier to avoid than a man with a gun who's hunting you back."

Maybe Carl's still a regular kid, 'cause even elbow deep in deer guts like he is, he can't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Got a lot of experience hunting people?"

Oliver grimaces, doesn't answer, but then he shakes his hair out of his face and looks over at him, and then Daryl. Maybe he figures stayin' quiet will just make it worse, because he shrugs. "I've got some. And before you ask, _no_ , I don't recommend it."

"You a soldier, before? Like Clint?" 

Carl's glancing up at the tower for emphasis, only suddenly, he's scowling, worried. Daryl's reaching for his crossbow before he even looks up.

Clint's talking into that goddamned phone again. 

Only his arms are moving, he's pacing back and forth, excited as all hell. 

\--- 

"One last thing," Fury says, his voice breaking up over the connection. "Figure it'll come up by the time we get down there. But you need to know, 'cause it might come up sooner."

He's got one hand on the ladder, ready to head down. The novelty of discovering that Fury and Hill are still alive has started wearing off; he wants to get off the phone and tell the guys what's happened, that SHIELD is coming, that there might be some semblance of a _plan_ in the works, and he's not in the mood for last-minute complications. 

He's not an idiot, though. He stays where he is, and keeps his voice in check. "What's that, sir?" 

"When Phil died, it activated his LMD. We probably should've seen it coming, but he's heading your way."


	14. Chapter 14

"Okay, fill us in. What's an LMD?" Oliver unscrews the cap and passes Clint the vodka. He's still holding it together, more or less, but it can't hurt. It'll give him a chance to slow down, though. He hasn't made any sense so far. 

"Life Model Decoy." Clint winces against the burn, but when his eyes open again, they're still wide. At least he's stopped pacing, though he'll probably resume it any second now. "You know the people I work with. Well. Tony Stark, he's a genius, right? And a total asshole. He'd been creating these things, robotic body doubles of himself, only... _more_. Sentient AI. Completely autonomous, other than the personality uploaded from the person it's cloning."

"That's..." Oliver trails off, shaking his head. _Fucked up_ doesn't really cover it any more. Fucked up had been finding out that aliens had attacked New York City, and that a bunch of people with super powers had fought them off. Fucked up had been his dad's best friend, blowing up the city and following it up with mind control drugs that mutated into a zombie virus. 

_Fucked up_ is worn out, now. What Clint's saying shouldn't even rate. 

"Anyway. Phil. Coulson. My stupid, overeager, _boy_ scout of a handler, he found out about it." 

Something about the way Clint hesitates, or maybe it's the emphasis he uses, catches Oliver off guard. It probably doesn't mean anything. But if it _does_ , then it might at least explain why Clint's so freaked out, why he's _been_ so freaked out. 

Clint's started pacing again, still talking. "Thought it would be a good thing for SHIELD to add to the toolbox." He snorts and rolls his eyes; they land on Oliver. "Toolbox. His _exact_ words. So he went over there and volunteered to have Stark make one of himself, like some sort of _floor model_ he could take to Fury to prove its worth."

"So, let me guess," Daryl leans back to get a better look at him, or maybe he's backing up out of the line of fire. "It backfired horribly?"

Clint shakes his head, takes a breath like he's willing himself to calm down. "No. It worked _perfectly_." He snorts, takes another pull off the bottle and passes it on to Daryl. "I spent two days with him in the field not knowing that he was a fucking _robot_. It wasn't until I left him working late at the office, and went home to find my him already sitting on our couch, that I had any idea what was going on." The laughter is short and biting, it takes him a moment to continue; he's just shaking his head, mouth twisted, remembering. 

"I thought he was a Skrull, almost killed shot him, right then and there. _Then_ I almost had a heart attack."

Daryl finishes around the whiskey he's just downed, and holds the bottle out for Oliver to grab. He looks startled, and even though he's masking it quickly, the way Clint's looking back at him is more intense and focused than Oliver would've expected, had he not been listening for it. Both of them mask it quickly, and Daryl manages to recover. 

"The fuck's a Skrull?" 

Another shake of the head, but Clint's stance eases enough for him to shrug. "Don't ask."

Oliver gives it a minute to see if there's anything else, rolling the bottle between his hands. Clint's just staring out the window, now, like something's coming for him. 

"So what do you think he wants?" Oliver eventually asks. "Any idea?"

"I do." Clint nods, like he's admitting something he's known bone-deep for years. "And I'm pretty sure that it's me. Only problem is, I _buried_ Phil, and what's coming? _Isn't him_." 

\--- 

It's nearing sundown when Rick's truck is spotted coming towards the prison, but it's the two following behind that's making everyone head down to the yard. Carl helps him get the gate open to let them in; it's only when he sees the kid grinning that Daryl realizes that he'd been surlier than usual these past two days, ever since they'd taken off. Rick probably won't even realize that the kid had been worried in the first place. 

Rick, Glenn and Tyreese had hit the jackpot, that much is obvious even before they're climbing out of the trucks, and there's an audible ripple of excitement as everyone surges closer to the trucks. Good thing, too; there's food to be unloaded- cases of canned tuna, pears, enough tomatoes that they're going to be sick to death of them long before they run out. Boxes upon boxes of oatmeal, pasta. Chili and soup and instant mac and cheese, and that's not even counting the loads Daryl doesn't have to haul personally. 

Even better, there's medicine, real medicine- antibiotics and painkillers, bottles of vitamins. Beth and Maggie are fuckin' singing about _tampons_ like they've just found Jesus. There's clothes and two cases of soap, and all of it needs to go somewhere. 

"We're gonna head back down in a day or so, cache what we can, bring more back," Glenn says, passing him a heavy box out of the back of the truck. Lifting a corner of the flap, Daryl snorts. Apparently, they'd taken it upon themselves to raid the library down in Manchester as well. "You guys up for it?"

"Yeah," Daryl says over his shoulder. "Just let me know when."

Ain't like there's a real place for the books, but the main cell block's a good bet. He finds Oliver in the kitchen a while later, sorting cans with a brown-haired girl whose name, Daryl thinks, is Jessica. They're not talking, just moving things around on the shelves, but it feels like he's interrupting, just lurking in the doorway like this. 

"You guys got this?"

"We're good," Jessica says, almost a little too quickly. "There isn't much more."

"Hold up," Oliver holds up his hand and stands up from where he's crouching by the bottom shelf, nodding at her as he leads Daryl out into the mess hall before he says anything. "Have you seen Clint anywhere?"

"Not since earlier." He'd seen him wandering off toward the north side of the compound later on, but going after him hadn't been an option. Not while he's been running around all damned day wondering what it meant, Clint and this Phil guy sharing a couch, and what it meant that he was thinking himself sick with the wondering. "His bow's still up in the tower."

"I know, but..."

Daryl nods. After what Clint had said this morning, they'd agreed, without talking about it, that they _aren't_ going to talk about it, at least not until there's a reason to. "Rick's gonna need to know." 

"Any idea how he's gonna take it?"

"Hell, man. I don't even know how _I'm_ taking it. Some fucked up shit, right there."

"Well," Oliver nods at Glenn, who's passing by with another armload of supplies. "At least _you_ didn't disappear all day."

"Yeah, well. Ain't the robotic clone of my dead boyfriend that's bearing down on us from who knows where."

Oliver smirks, shaking his head. "You caught that too, huh?"

And yeah, he _had_ , but he hadn't planned on _talking_ about it. 

"Man's business is his own," he says. It comes out more forced than it needs to; Oliver's watching him, now.

"You cool with it?"

"None of my business. It's cool." He thinks he manages to say it without sounding like he'd been thinking about it all fucking day long. Like the robotic clone was the only part of the equation that he'd paid any mind to. "You?"

Oliver shrugs. "Yeah. Kind of explains a lot."

"Yeah, well. You see him, tell him that we're gonna have to tell Rick. About the decoy, thing, I mean. I can talk to him if Clint don't want to."

"Sounds good," Oliver's smirk looks too damned knowing, just for a second, but then it's gone, and he gets back to the point. "You think we should go look for him?"

_No _. If Daryl were Clint, that's the last thing he'd be wanting right now. Instead, though, he just shrugs.__

__"Think the man needs his space for a bit, and I think he's damned good at disappearing when he wants to, but yeah," Daryl says. "Knock yourself out."_ _

__\---_ _

__Clint climbs up onto the roof of the tower, careful to keep out of sight, not that anyone's likely to come looking. Daryl and Oliver cleaning the game they'd brought back; he'd spotted them arriving a few hours ago before disappearing around the other side of the prison. He just doesn't know anyone else here well enough to assume that they wouldn't be extremely nervous, seeing him on the roof like the sniper he is._ _

__It's not that he's planning on shooting anyone, it's just that the extra five feet the higher vantage point gives him allows him nearly half a mile clearance over the tops of the trees. Anyone asks, he's just following orders, and he's the only one here with half a clue what's coming._ _

__That doesn't mean he knows what, _exactly_ to expect. So he's giving himself an extra few minutes to get his head straight, once his quarry's spotted. _ _

__All he knows is that it's likely that the LMD will arrive before Fury's team does, even though it'll probably stop in Barnesville, first. The few seconds Phil had been dead in the Helicarrier had been enough to trigger the initiation protocols, causing more confusion than Fury had liked. Stark had later reported in that he'd modified the protocols, programming an instinct to hone in on Phil's subcutaneous beacon and confirm the death before doing anything else._ _

__He has no idea how long it'll take, and tries not to think about the beacon blinking out into the universe through a too-thin layer of roadside debris._ _

__\---_ _

__It's been two days since the call, now, and he's managed okay. He's managed to force himself down from the tower long enough to convince everyone that he's not completely insane. He's had time to prepare, but preparedness feels an awful lot like dread. The false start he gets whenever anyone glances towards the gate has him wanting to reach for his bow, every single time._ _

__If Phil had walked up to the prison fence like this and Fury _hadn't_ warned him? The nervous breakdown would've been epic. He would've lost his shit, right here in front of everyone. _ _

__But now?_ _

__Now Daryl's covering from the tower; Oliver and half the prison's standing in the yard behind him. Armed and nervous, waiting for something to happen._ _

__Because _now, suddenly_ , Phil's standing in front of him, on the other side of the fence. It's _Phil_ , it's _not_ Phil, and it's less than ten feet away, but Clint can't see the arc reactor he knows is there, hidden under layers of clothes. He wishes it wasn't wearing a shirt. Because right now, it's just too damned close. _ _

__It takes him a minute to force himself to looks at its face, to make himself even _see_ the lines around eyes that are a dead match for Phil's. Its entire _expression_ , down to the glint in its eye, is perfect. _ _

__"Fuck you," Clint says, suddenly exhausted. He raises his hand, giving Tyreese the signal to open the gate, and walks away._ _


	15. Chapter 15

Oliver's been hanging back, wanting to give Clint a minute before coming down to help with the gate, but when Clint's back goes rigid and he turns on his heel, stalking past him, he thinks that maybe, he should've been a few steps closer. 

Following his movement, he finds Rick staring at Clint with raised eyebrows; they inch up even higher as Clint passes by without a word. 

Rick's hackles are clearly raised as he steps forward, and there's already a wave of consternation coming from the others in the yard. Glenn and Maggie are talking nervously, up on the hill, gesturing down at them, and Oliver can't tell what the man at the fence is thinking. It's definitely not the best first contact scenario, and it's probably just about to get worse. 

Oliver raises a hand to forestall Rick before he even realizes that he's doing it, waits for him to stop, and then turns back to the gate himself. Out of the corner of his eye as he walks, he can see Daryl coming out of the tower, heading off in the direction that Clint's taken. He doesn't turn to watch him go; instead he's trying to get a read on the man standing on the other side of the fence. 

Coulson's standing easy, arms loose at his sides, hands empty. His suit is filthy but he's not got a hair out of place, otherwise, and the grin on his face is placid, nonthreatening. It's completely disconcerting. He's also a robot, and for all Oliver knows, he's pissed off right now. He hopes like hell Stark wasn't drunk and angry when he'd designed the thing. 

Once upon a time, he'd been able to make small talk, easily, with people he couldn't stand. In retrospect, it had probably helped that nobody, prior to his return to Starling City, had ever taken him seriously. 

"Hello," the robot says, once it's obvious that nobody else milling around the yard is going to approach. "I'm Phil Coulson, and I come in peace."

"Good to know," Oliver says, stepping up to the fence. "Oliver Queen."

The facial expression changes to one of mild surprise, and another smile. "Nice to meet you. I. Well, it's complicated, as I'm sure you've heard. But I followed your career with some interest."

Oliver knows that he's staring. Doesn't bother trying to hide it.

"Sorry. I'm freaking you out." Coulson frowns. "Would it be more comforting if I said that it was my predecessor who'd followed your career?" 

That isn't even the issue, Oliver thinks, only maybe it is, and it's not at all what he thinks they need to be talking about right now. "A little, yeah."

"We'll go with that, then, seeing as how I've managed to already hit my quota for inadvertently terrifying excellent marksmen."

"Yeah," Oliver says again. "About that, Clint, he-"

"Is pissed at me and took off." Coulson- it's easier to think of him as a person, shrugs. "He'll come back."

"You sure about that?" 

"He still needs to unleash on me." Another tight lipped smile, another awkward shrug. "My predecessor was used to it. Now. I'm looking out here and seeing a lot of nervous people. Is there anything I can do to put them at their ease? I could come back later, give you all time to discuss."

"We already had warning you were coming, not sure that'd help." Taking this long to get to the point while half the camp is staring at him probably isn't helping, either. "You should know, though, we're keeping the details of your condition quiet." He's not certain how long they'll manage it, though. There are three walkers in the grass on Coulson's side of the fence, and they're just getting close enough that they should be locking on him any second now.

"That's understandable." Coulson shrugs, and it's right then that Oliver makes his decision, but he looks over his shoulder and at Rick to confirm. He's already approaching.

"You seem to be taking this awfully well." He moves to the side, ready to open the gate when Rick grabs the end of it. 

"I could say the same for you," Coulson replies as they haul it open wide enough for him to step through. 

"This is Rick Grimes," Oliver says, securing the bolt again. "He's the sheriff around here."

"I appreciate your not shooting on sight," Coulson says, extending a hand.

"We did have some time to prepare," Rick says as they shake. "Nice to meet you. Ah, we got someone on Clint right now, so I don't know when he'll take it upon himself to show his face, but I figure we've probably got a lot to talk about in the meantime, if you don't mind?"

"Not at all," Coulson says pleasantly, still completely unruffled. If Oliver hadn't known the man was a robot, he'd be suspecting as much by now. 

\--- 

Clint's not actually trying to disappear. Daryl finds him sitting on the grass on the west side of the building, glaring through the fence with his elbows on his knees. It turns into a humorless smirk when Daryl stands next to him. 

"You okay?"

"Ugh. I'm fine. Just. Fucking _thrown_ , is all." 

"Figured as much." Daryl hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "Saw 'em taking him. It. Whatever. Inside." The sun's going to be going down soon, and he's wondering if robots need to eat. Rick had insisted on not telling anyone about the LMD thing; it might give the entire game away. As for himself, he's still a little weirded out about how put together it had looked, approaching the gate, like a new toy that had been dropped in the dirt on the way from the store. 

"Look, man. Rick's talking to him right now. We're keeping the entire robot thing close for as long we can. All anyone knows is that you were able to make contact with your people. Well, _that_ , and that you're pissed at him."

"Yeah, well. Maybe that'll just help sell it." It's sudden, Clint's laughter, but it doesn't last long. "Might as well have it out now, yeah?"

Daryl nods. "More to the point, food's on. You better move your ass if you're plannin' on eatin' tonight."

Clint rocks his head back on his shoulders, blinks up at the sky. After a moment, he sighs, but he's getting to his feet. "When you were a kid, did you ever think things would get this fucked up?"

Daryl snorts, thinks suddenly about Gramps, and all his ranting insanity about the end of the world. "For real? I think I kinda did."

\---

Clint's pretty sure everyone would be staring at him regardless of his freakout, but he does what he can to ignore it, even if he's considering throwing another one, right fucking now. 

It looks perfect. He has to stop himself from feeling _actual physical relief_ from just seeing its face all over again. 

If Fury hadn't worn him, he realizes, he might've had one perfect moment, at the gate, where everything had been okay. It would've lasted only until he remembered, though, and yes, he _would_ have completely lost it, and it would've been bad. He just doesn't know that it wouldn't have been worth it. 

Rick's introducing it to Hershel, when Clint arrives, so there's a minute where he just has to stand here with a carefully blank expression on his face while he waits his turn. It falters the moment it looks at him. 

"Hey Clint."

"Hey. Good to see you." His skin's crawling. The entire camp's in here, and everyone's eyes are burning through him, like they can hear the lie. "You got a minute?"

It smirks at him, like he doesn't know that it didn't just walk hundreds of miles to come here. "Lead on, MacDuff."

Clint nods at Oliver as he passes. "Back in a few." Last thing he needs is anyone else coming after him, like he needs backup or something. 

\--- 

"So, this ought to be one heck of a SitRep, but let's start with the obvious," it says, so much like _Phil_ , with that same insufferable _patience_ , that it's distracting. "What's wrong?"

"You want to know what's wrong? Fine. Just remember. _You_ fucking asked." Clint snorts, crossing his arms. He'd brought them out here to hash this out, after all. The sooner he does, the sooner he might just be able to get over this enough that he'll be able to function at all. 

"I'm pissed. Pissed at Phil, pissed at Fury, because this was never part of the deal. You were supposed to be there so Phil wouldn't get killed, and you're only here now because he _died_." He takes a breath, lets it out, still trying to rein it in. "We've got zombies, and now it's like there's a vampire running around in your skin."

And fuck it, it's just a thing. It doesn't have feelings that need sparing. He's not the first target Clint's thrown his aggression at. 

"I _buried_ Phil. Natasha too, after I put a bullet in her head to stop her from changing, you know that? Fuck, I didn't even do a good job. And I miss them enough that the only reason I'm still alive, instead of crying in a corner somewhere, is that the world's still ending but the goddamned mission isn't." He chokes on a laugh. "Surprise, surprise, everyone. Turns out, and you'll love the fucking irony, here, that I'm just too well trained." 

He'd meant to say all this. He'd been rehearsing on the way down. He just hadn't meant to _mean_ it so much, and maybe it is a vampire; it's draining the hell out of him. 

"I'm sorry," it says, sounding enough like Phil that for a second, Clint forgets again and looks up, forgets everything but the need to take whatever it is that's put that expression on Phil's face and make it go away. 

And it's not like it doesn't already know, but he's flagging, suddenly, and just needs to get this out. "It's not even the first time this happened, did you know that? You. _Phil_ died. In New York."

It nods. "His readings weren't offline long enough to trigger my activation. I was plugged into SHIELD's servers the entire time." 

"Of course you were." Clint sighs. At least this time, he sounds resigned. "So you know, then. About how nobody told me? Or how Natasha had to come drag my ass out of a gutter in Karachi so _she_ could tell me the news that you were alive?"

"I know what it felt like to know we'd betrayed you. And that I was supposed to discipline Natasha for disobeying orders to come find you, and that I hated myself for even considering doing it. I know what she told me on the phone when she'd gotten you to the hospital."

Phil always did that- sidetracked him like this. Instead of asking- he really doesn't want to know, and _definitely_ doesn't want to hear the exact replication of Phil's voice spilling Natasha's worry verbatim. "You know a lot of things."

"Everything but the command codes that'll shut me down," it says, and something its voice makes Clint look at it. "I tried, you know. To stop it. But the only thing ever uploaded into my consciousness was _Phil's_ consciousness. The kill switch, that was all Stark. Same as the waking and initialization protocols." It's only pausing because Phil would've paused here. There's no biological reason for it to take a deep breath like this. "And Stark's LMD is as amenable to reason as Stark himself was. He won't let me near them."

Clint needs a minute to parse it out. "You tried killing yourself?" Only he should've said _shut yourself down_. It would be more accurate. 

"You can't honestly think I'd want this, Clint. I mean, living is great. But it's tiring, now. I woke up thinking you were dead. Then I found out you weren't. And I was _ecstatic_ , and terrified, because I knew what was coming." It regards him seriously. "I _do_ remember how you reacted to me the first time."

"So why'd you come looking for me?"

"Same reasons I. He. Always had. Because keeping you safe is what I do." It sighs pointlessly again, and looks down at its feet. "And because I love you."

\---

Oliver's halfway through his dinner when Daryl nudges his shoulder and nods towards the entrance. Whatever's been said between Phil and Clint is, at least, enough that they're sitting down next to each other. It could be that they both want to be able to see everyone else in the room, or it could be that neither one is up for meeting the other's eyes. 

An intervention doesn't seem necessary, but that's not stopping him from keeping watch out of the corner of his eye. Daryl, for his part, seems content to watch him watch. Then again, turning around to rubberneck would probably be far too obvious. 

Oliver's only noticing at all because he's looking for it, but Phil isn't eating any of his food. He blends right in, though, next to Clint, who seems to have lost his appetite. 

Glancing back across the table at Daryl, he shrugs. "Looks like it's goin' okay."

Daryl nods, still chewing. The venison isn't as tough in the stew as it had been last night, but it's taking a while to get down. For a minute looks like he's about to say something, but it never comes, and eventually, they're both finished. 

People have started moving outside again, out to the fires or diffusing back into the cell blocks, and right on cue, the singing starts. It's pretty much a nightly thing, Beth leading everyone. She's got a nice voice but he's finding himself missing loud, repetitive club music blasting everything else out of existence. The fact she tends to lapse into church music, especially when her father's around, is disconcerting. When the others join in, it sounds like they're praying- and maybe they are. Like there's nothing else to do besides wait in the darkness for the inevitable. 

It's usually his cue to start walking the perimeter. Double checking the fences, figuring out who's going to be where, that sort of thing. There's a garage that some of the younger teenagers seem to have taken over. 

Tonight, as he walks by, he can hear a few of them- Dante and Vang, most likely, rapping back and forth, like they're trying to drown out the songs from the fire. It collapses, every so often, into laughter. The sort of thing he used to hear coming out of Thea's room when her friends were over. He avoids it like the plague, and tells himself he's just giving them their space. 

Space is a rare thing, these days, and as much as he wants to find out what's going on with Clint, he's not looking forward to heading back up to the tower tonight. Swinging through the block, intent on putting it off a little longer, he browses the library stockpiled in the commons. Most of the novels and how- to manuals have been ransacked. All that's left is a stockpile of classics. Dickens, Kafka, Rushdie- the sort of thing that used to make the "100 books you must read before you die" lists. 

Judging by their pristine condition, there are a lot of people who don't plan on dying any time soon. It's more heartening than the singing drifting through the windows. 

He rummages deeper, finds a tattered novel- a mystery, about a sheriff in Wyoming- and slips it into his back pocket, slightly annoyed that he _can_ ; he's going to have to take them in again, soon. 

It's dark outside, but the lantern up in the tower's charged. It's Daryl's night to take first watch; he's already pulling on his hat and gloves when Oliver reaches the top of the tower.

"You seen Clint?"

"Think he's still talking with Phil."

"Yeah," Daryl nods, then looks away, then back at him. "What's your read on all of that?"

It's a strange question, not just because they both know they're talking about a robot, here, but because Daryl's not usually the one asking questions like this.

"The guy's weird," Oliver replies, resisting the urge to look around, but there's nobody up here but the two of them. "Just _friendly_ , you know? Clint told him to fuck off, and he just smiled."

"Same as Phil did," Clint's voice comes from the doorway behind him; inwardly, he cringes. "Or, well. Would've." 

When he turns, though, it's just Clint, not that it isn't bad enough. Phil's nowhere to be seen, but he doesn't get around to asking before he continues. "Hershel's getting him set up with a room inside. Figured it might be crowded up here." Oliver wonders if he should be feeling obligated to make the invitation, but Clint spares him the effort. "Thank fucking god. Not that strangling him would do any good, but..."

"How's that all goin?" Daryl asks, passing by him in the doorway, one foot out on the terrace. 

"I briefed him, it was fucked up, etcetera, etcetera." He's been saying _him_ , more than _it_. Maybe it's a sign of progress. "He's going to head out in the morning to try and meet up with Fury. Seems to think that they might need some navigational help, since they're essentially following his signal to get here." He gestures at the gear bags in the corner, and sits down on the mattress, leaning back on his hands. "Never mind that they got this far without him. Think it's just programmed into him." 

"You going with him?"

Clint lifts his left hand from the mattress, just the fingers, frozen. After a minute, he nods. "Yeah. You guys are welcome to join, unless you've got other things to do."

\---

_"It's only the worst-case scenario when it hasn't happened yet. Afterwards, it's just a bad day."_ Phil had it often enough Natasha had threatened to take up cross-stitch, just so that the words could be permanently displayed in his office. And while she'd never- _will_ never- get around to it, the words aren't any less true for the lack of a sampler hanging on an office wall. 

He's just having a hard time convincing himself of it right now.

They'd set out early this morning, earlier than he would've liked- it was _freezing_ outside, damp too- but Daryl had insisted on checking the eastern snares en route. There weren't any for the first hour or so, and at the seventh, they'd come across three walkers taking care of what had remained of the deer. Killing them had only taken a minute, and afterwards, they'd moved more quickly. 

Even slowed down as they were by all the mud and frost-crusted leaves, they'd been making fair progress, or so Clint had thought. Phil, on the other hand, had grown impatient. By the time they'd reached the tenth snare he'd decided to scout on ahead, shoving a beacon monitor into Clint's hand before he left. He'd been half watching it all morning, making sure Phil's dot was never more than a quarter mile out. 

It had been habit, the looking. Mostly. The rest of it? He'd _just_ started to get used to the idea that Phil was gone, and he's _not_ used to the idea that he kind of, sort of, isn't. And then Phil had gone again, going off ahead, and all Clint had was this evidence of some sort of existence. 

He hasn't actually _needed_ to see Phil until now. Only the monitor's lying on the ground, somewhere, maybe in the water, and he can't reach it, can't see. Not with Oliver leaning over him, trying to check the bleeding, trying to talk to him. His words aren't getting through. The panic, though, Clint can read it loud and clear. 

"I got bit," he repeats, mostly unable to hear his own voice as he bats Oliver's hands away, and it's ironic, he thinks, that there'd be so much _noise_.

Mostly it's just waves of static, his hearing aid fuzzing out the edges, interspersed with bursts of rushing water from the river he's bleeding into, and the clipped strains of Oliver's shouting. He thinks he might hear Daryl's voice, too, and he's _trying_ to hear Phil's, _straining_ for it, because it's better than focusing on the pain, or worse, facing the panic that comes with not being able to _see_ them. 

It's not just that they're out of range. His sight's closing down, has been for a while now, he doesn't even know how long. Slow and fast all at once, the one solid thing he's ever had and he's losing it. 

A few minutes ago, he'd still been able to make out the leaves on the trees. His world's shrunk down to ten, maybe eight feet, most of it sky and even _that_ is a sickly gray-brown wash. It's clouding over more thickly by the second. The snatches he's still able to hear are coming fewer and farther between, until he doesn't know if it's because the batteries are dying, or because _he_ is. 

"Stop-"

Oliver's the last living thing in his world, and he's still trying to fight him off, get him away; Oliver _has_ to know what's happening. He'd never made Clint the same promises he himself had made to Nat and Phil. He's still trying to save him, trying to drag him up off the muddy bank, and Clint can't even see his face any more, just a blur. He tries to swing an arm up, tries to push Oliver's hands away, can't even find them. 

He's running out of time, running out of thoughts. Losing the ability to wish that Oliver would just _stop_ , already. 

" _Don't let me change._ " He thinks he's might be shouting, doesn't know for certain that he's ever stopped. He feels his chest constricting with the effort, he hates that he's begging, and he only _hopes_ he's still using words at all. But Oliver needs to _get back_. 

The sick numb _pain_ in his limbs is crawling in from the edges, his stomach's cramping horribly, and he can't stop himself from trying to twist away from it, can't stop his eyes from screwing shut against it all, can't-


	16. Chapter 16

The snow's melting on impact, but the mud's slicker than hell, and the reeds keep catching at his crossbow as he runs. 

He'd just killed Clint. Might've killed Oliver, too, if the shot had been any closer. He just doesn't know if he'd made it in time. 

There are half a dozen people getting out of the trucks up on the road; probably the ones Phil had dragged them out here to meet. They're swarming towards Oliver's position- they're going to get there _first_ \- and Daryl hates them on sight. 

When he finally does get close enough to shout, one of the soldiers already has a bead on him, stepping into his path with wide eyes.

"Out of the way," he manages to bite out, gesturing past him at the others, who are crowding Clint and Oliver so thickly that he can't even see them. Someone in the throng is shouting. He thinks it's Phil, but he doesn't look, just pushes forward.

Another soldier- a woman, with long black hair- is trying to help Oliver to his feet, but his movements are uncoordinated and she sidesteps him easily, backing up without giving an inch. She gestures at the truck one last time, and heads back towards Clint.

Maybe she's just heading back to the others. Clint's gone. 

"You're Daryl Dixon?" 

He snaps his head up and turns to find a tall black man in a long black coat glaring at him with one eye. The other one's covered with a patch and if his bow had been loaded, he would've drawn on him, just on principle. 

"Yeah. The fuck're you?"

"Nick Fury. SHIELD," he says, stepping forward. He doesn't block Daryl's path; instead he falls into step with him, routing him deliberately away from the crowd surrounding Clint.

"Nice fucking timing," Daryl mutters, but if Fury hears him, he doesn't let on. He doesn't have time for this right now; he still can't tell if Oliver's been bit. Not for sure.

"Agent Coulson's told me about you, and I'm going to need you to fill in some blanks for us, but right now, we need to get you and Mr. Queen out of here. Get him up to the Suburban up there. I want us cleared out in two minutes. You with me enough to handle that?"

Daryl glances back at the group surrounding Clint. There's a gap between two of the soldiers; their legs are framing his bolt, sticking up towards the sky. He doesn't let himself follow the shaft down to the wound, but he can't look away, either.

"Yes sir," he grinds out, still staring. The man doesn't have any right to give him orders, but following them beats thinking. 

He nearly trips over Oliver's bow, lying in the ground, and he picks it up as Fury turns back towards the group. 

Oliver's leaning over, his hands on his knees. Oliver starts when he holds it out to him, but grabs hold of it and leans on it as he hauls himself upright. His eyes are wild, his face is blank, and there's a smear of blood on the side of his neck. If Daryl's fists weren't clenched around his crossbow so tightly, he'd be shoving him down to the river to wash it off. Violently. 

"Come on," he says instead, because he's probably not the only one who needs orders more than thoughts right now. "Let's get to the truck."

\--- 

It's easier to pretend that he doesn't hear everyone's questions as he stares out the window, and his throat's sore from shouting, anyway. Not that it had done any good. 

He hadn't been loud enough, and Clint hadn't turned to see the walker closing in on him. Hadn't seemed to hear him at all. 

He hadn't been fast enough, and there'd been no one to pull Clint to safety. 

He'd made the shot, hit his target, but he hadn't made it in time. His fingers are still stinging from the bowstring. 

He'd fought his way through the wet, dragging grass, and he hadn't even been _hoping_ yet. He'd still just been _trusting_ that Clint was okay, even through the panic.

He'd seen the yellow-gray cataracts spreading over Clint's eyes and refused to understand what they'd meant, he'd still been trying to get him to his feet, to _move_ , already. A bolt had sliced through the air, close enough to feel its passing.

If he'd been any closer to Clint in that instant, it would've been a toss-up to guess which of his friends would've been the one to kill him. 

He remembers hands clawing at his shoulders, dragging him backwards and shoving him down onto the ground. Fighting them off hadn't been anything more than instinct. It hadn't even sunk in that they might've belonged to a soldier, trying to check him for bites. When he'd fought his way back up to his knees, he'd been startled to find half a dozen of them standing around. 

There's been only one other man on his knees. Phil. He'd looked agonized, kneeling in the mud next to Clint's body, but then someone had been dragging Oliver to his feet again, shoving him towards the truck.

There's a bad taste in his mouth, and he thinks he might've been sick; the next thing he remembers for certain is Daryl, shoving his bow into his hands and telling him to get into the truck. 

There are people piling in after him, and up front, someone's still trying to ask him questions that he doesn't intend to answer. 

So it's fucked up, really, that when Daryl climbs in next to him and sits down, all Oliver really wants to do is start shouting. 

\--- 

"It's been a bad day." Carol hugs him gingerly when they get back, like maybe she's trying to keep some of his filth off of her, or like she knows that, lately, the two of them aren't as close as they used to be and this entire mess is just underscoring it. "You need to eat something, Daryl, and you need to rest. Glenn and Tyreese have volunteered to take watch tonight, okay?"

"M'fine," Daryl says, trapped. He's not hungry, doesn't feel up to everyone staring at him. He just wants to get cleaned up and disappear for a while. The only reason he's let her stop him in the yard like this is because fuck it, he's feeling guilty enough as it is. Letting her down is just one screwup too far. 

"Bullshit," she smiles sadly, nodding up at where Oliver's walking ahead, head down, shoulders hunched. She usually gets this vacant near-frown on her face whenever she looks at him- Oliver tends to avoid her, and Daryl's not sure why- but there's no sign of it now. Just more of that goddamned sympathy. "But in any case, Oliver needs to rest too. You _know_ he won't take the night off unless you do, too."

It's surprising, how quickly that gets his hackles up. Like she even knows, like she and Oliver have made anything more than small talk since he's been here, and besides, it's Clint that he's fucked up about right now. 

Some of that must get through, because she shrugs. "It's going to be a bad night all around. Some of us might be frightened, want to know that you guys are okay."

"Don't feel like talking to anyone." He hopes she hears what he means. She's not included in the _anyone_ , only she kind of is. 

He just wants to get away, go back up to the tower, close his eyes, and pretend for a while longer that he doesn't deserve this _sick_ feeling in his stomach right now, that he hadn't been setting himself up for this for weeks. 

"I doubt anyone knows what to say anyway," she looks up and across the yard. Daryl follows her glance to find that Oliver's already gone; instead there's a yard full of people standing around, just staring back at them. "You'd think we'd all be better at it by now." 

\--- 

The garage is empty when Oliver goes in to clean off, quiet enough that there's nothing to hear but water dripping and every slight movement he makes echoing back at him from too far away. The fact that he knows it's just the usual hyper vigilance acting up doesn't make him feel any better- it never does- but right now, it's sticking in his brain more than he's used to. 

His friends don't die right in front of him all that often, but it's not because people have stopped dying. 

Opening the faucet, he climbs into the tub and starts washing before it's even had time to fill. The water's heated, but the garage is large enough that there's no warming up in here, and he's not the only one covered in blood and dirt right now. He probably only has a few minutes at best.

Water. Soap. Face. Neck, arms and torso. It sounds like the splashes he's making are coming from the other side of the garage. 

Clint hadn't heard him. He'd just been standing there, as the walker had reached for him, scratching at his ear, like he'd been distracted by something. It hadn't been the trucks approaching; he'd been looking in the wrong direction for that. 

Maybe Clint hadn't heard them, either. But he _had_ shouted. A lot, towards the end, and Oliver had been so busy shouting right back at him that he hadn't _seen_ what had been right in front of him. Hadn't made any sense at all of what Clint had been saying. 

_"Got bit. Don't let me change"_.

Clint had been begging him, and none of it had gotten through. 

He keeps thinking he's hearing it now, though, coming from the corner of the room. 

\--- 

Rick stands up to toast Clint the way he toasts everyone, when the time comes. It's as close to a funeral as anyone ever gets these days.

A few minutes later, he's got Phil up there, making introductions. Nick Fury. Maria Hill. Agents Loyola, Carver, Ward, Johnson, Myers, Briggs, May, and DeStefano. No first names, not that Daryl's likely to remember them anyway. 

Oliver's still sitting next to him when people start getting up to hit the chow line, and the two of them, they must make a bigger target than he's used to. First there's Carol, shoving bowls of stew on the table in front of them. Before long, he's getting tired of being startled by hands touching his shoulders as people- mostly strangers, except for Maggie and Beth- stop by the table to say how sorry they are, or that he should let them know if he needs anything. 

Glenn goes out of his way to crouch down next to his seat to tell him that Clint had been a good guy, as if Daryl hadn't fucking _noticed_ , and there's this stupid moment where he can see himself punching him- can practically feel Glenn's teeth against his knuckles all over again, but he swallows it down. 

It's just as well, 'cause his plate's looking unappetizing as hell, and he should probably be filling his stomach with _something_. 

Oliver doesn't seem to be faring much better. He actually flinches when someone- a Woodbury woman Daryl doesn't know- puts a hand on his shoulder. 

Becky. Her name's Becky.

It only gradually dawns on him, as he sits here pretending to listen to the stilted conversation Rick and Nick are trying to have, trying not to look at anyone, that everyone might actually mean all the crap they're spouting. And it's stupid, because it's only now that it blindsides him: Clint _was_ a good guy. 

He was friendly. Even if it had just been for show, he'd made the effort to smile a lot, talk to people. By the end of the first week, Daryl had learned more about the Woodbury folks through Clint than he had from talking to them himself. Hell, he'd been the only reason Daryl had ever found out Becky's name in the first place. 

And now that he's fucking _gone_ , he's not gonna be around to make introductions. Not that getting to know anyone in here is top priority. All he really wants to do is _leave_. 

He waits, though, because he might not be a good guy, but he's not an outright asshole. He's not gonna just leave Oliver, thousand-yard staring at the center of the table, to sit through this on his own. 

\--- 

Nobody says anything when he follows Daryl's lead and sets his untouched bowl on one of the tables as he leaves. There's always someone who'll finish it off.

It's raining as they head to the other cell block, but Phil, Fury and Hill are standing out in the yard like they haven't even noticed. They're talking by the side of the larger of the two trucks they'd come in with; it's just now that he's realizing how huge it is. The door's sitting open, sending the blue light of functioning electronics sprawling across the grass. 

They've attracted several onlookers, even with the rain- maybe it's the novelty of computer screens and authority- but nobody's approaching them. Carol's at the edge of the group; she's watching Daryl instead; he doesn't notice her at all. Everyone else, though, they're talking in hushed voices about what the truck might mean. 

As if it means anything. The world's still ending.

The block's dark already when they make it inside, but it's full. He's glad there's just flashlights to go by; nobody can look too hard at him right now. It seems like it'll take a while for everyone to quiet down for the evening, and their presence is making his skin crawl. There are dozens of people in these cells, and their conversations, hushed as they are, fill up the space to the rafters. It's more noise than he's become accustomed to, and the feeling that he's in the wrong place, with the wrong people, is hard to ignore. 

Maybe in a few days, once he settles into whatever new routine is coming, it will stop grating on him. 

Daryl walks quietly next to him. If they were outside, he probably wouldn't notice it at all. But they're not even going as far as the tower out in the yard, tonight, let alone hunting, and Clint, who should be with them, _isn't_. There's no one between them to fill the space with idle conversation. Around them, the entire prison's just murmuring idly, waiting for someone to pick up the slack. 

When they arrive at cell 16, Daryl sits down one of the bottom bunks without speaking; Oliver grabs the one across from him. The two upper bunks are both empty, and there's more space down here than there'd been in the tower, but it still feels cramped. 

He hadn't asked, when he'd overheard Rick talking to Daryl at dinner, if their being relegated to the block is just a temporary thing. As much as he still wants to know, he decides it can wait until morning. They still haven't spoken to each other yet, and it's a stupid thing to start with. 

Maybe, in a few days, he'll stop waiting for Clint to start their conversations. 

\--- 

There's no wind, down here, the air's not moving at all. It feels like a punishment, which is apt, at least. In his head, he knows that _technically_ , it hadn't been murder, and _technically_ , it hadn't even been by his own hands. 

He'd just made Daryl do it instead. And even though they still haven't spoken, it's unlikely that he's not distinctly aware of the fact.

It's what Oliver's best at, after all. Getting his friends hurt, killed, or worse because of all the things he's blind to. Clint. His entire fucking family, the entire fucking world. All the way back past Tommy, past Slade and Yao Fei. All the way back to Sara.

After the other cells have turned in- he's able to tell from the sounds, more than the sight, since he's lying on his own bed with his back to the room- he finally decides that it needs to come out, that he needs to say it. Maybe now, like this, Daryl will let him. 

"You awake?"

Daryl hums something that might be a yes. Oliver rolls over to face him and shifts closer to the edge of his bunk so his voice doesn't have to carry so far. 

"I'm sorry. For everything." 

Daryl doesn't say anything for a long time, doesn't even move. His bunk's only two, three feet away at most, and Oliver thinks he could reach it if he tried, if he was allowed, but he won't force it. He grasps on the frame of his bunk, squeezes the metal tightly when his hand threatens to move. Anything more would be another mess that he'll have to clean up, and he'll just fuck things up more in the process. Starling City all over again, and maybe in the morning, he'll be astonished at himself for giving the two situations the same weight. 

"Me too," Daryl eventually says, quietly. Eventually, he rolls over to look back at him, but Oliver can just barely make out his shape, can't see his face at all. He wonders if Daryl's mirroring him right now, straining to look and trying to hide. 

\--- 

Down the way, Lil' Asskicker's fussin' and Carl's humming something Daryl can't quite make out to stop her crying, but it hasn't worked, yet. It's late, and the cell block is pitch black. 

"You okay?" 

The question is quiet enough, and the cell is dark enough, that he doesn't have to admit that he's heard it. Instead, he tucks his chin down, and squeezes his eyes shut. Just tries go back to staving it all off for another minute. 

He doesn't even realize that he's been holding his breath until the mattress dips next to him. There's a weight on his shoulder, a hand, and he can't figure out why Oliver's letting himself get this close, not when only a few hours ago, Daryl had put an arrow through Clint's skull like he'd been nothing at all. He doesn't need this, whatever it is. 

Oliver's not speaking, and honestly, that's the only reason why he's even letting this happen. Oliver's grasp tightens, for a second, and eases, but he doesn't let go. 

And Daryl _gets_ it, suddenly. Maybe it's not just about pity, and not just about guilt. Maybe it's just shared fucking misery in a cold cell, and mattresses that are just two feet further apart than they've been used to. 

At first, all he manages is to shift forward towards the wall, holding his breath and hoping that his point- he's not calling it an invitation- gets through. He waits for what feels like a long time, almost long enough that he'd roll over and say it out loud, if he were braver. If he could get his throat to work. Instead, he's listening to the sounds on the block and wonders if anyone can see what's happening, here. 

The weight on the mattress shifts, there's warmth against his back, hot breath on his neck, and that's all. He wonders if it's enough, only relaxing into it incrementally, wondering if he's imagining the tension coiled in the muscles behind him. 

Oliver freezes when he rolls carefully onto his back to make room; there's a tangle of limbs for a minute, and then he's _facing_ him, but he can't see anything at all. Oliver's forehead is pressed against his own. When he brings a hand up and puts it on Oliver's arm, no alarms go off, nothing happens. It's fucking terrifying. 

But _fucking terrifying_ is a step up from where he'd been, and really, this ain't so much different than sleeping in the tower is. It's not a big deal. In light of all the fucked up shit going on, this shouldn't even rate.

He lies awake, listening carefully for footsteps out in the corridor- the sign that this is going to have to stop, that he's gonna have to face the fact that he ain't supposed to want this- but for now, he keeps his eyes closed and his forehead pressed against Oliver's, and he hangs on, too. Hangs on tight. 

He doesn't sleep at all.


	17. Chapter 17

There's no service, no burial. Just a lot of people wearing worried expressions and offering condolences. 

"Either of you guys need anything," Patrick says, and it's got to be the fifteenth time he's heard it today, "just holler." He uses the same inaccurate plural that everyone else has been using. 

It's not as if Oliver's immune to their habits. They're not the only ones who find it easier to look at Daryl when he's not looking back. But apparently they've made him their emissary, so Oliver nods his thanks, relieving Patrick of his duty, and goes on his way. At some point, if he's lucky, today will be the day this place will run out of people who haven't yet grabbed his arm to make their condolences. 

As pissed as he's trying not to be about the entire thing, mostly, he'd just like to know what it was that Daryl had done to _them_ to earn their avoidance. Asking him isn't really an option. It's not like he's earned the right to any easy answers, anyway, not since crossing the line like he did.

"Already did my time in fucking cells like this," Daryl had said the next morning, when Oliver had bumped into him and his pack on their way out of the cells. If he'd managed to look Oliver in they eye at all, he might've been able to sell it better. "Fucking claustrophobic an' shit. Ain't gonna volunteer for more. Rick don't like it, he can kiss my ass." And then he'd nodded, his mouth vaguely twisted, and walked off. 

Oliver still doesn't know where he crashes out, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's not supposed to know. So he stays in his own bed, and wakes exhausted every morning. He takes a few patrols, helps with the smokehouse construction in the western yard, and mostly just tries to keep his head low, tries not to look for him too obviously. He only ever hears that Daryl's been out hunting, or on a supply run, when someone else mentions it. 

When they are in the same place at the same time, odds are, there's always at least three other people between them, carefully positioned. Clint had been a better buffer than he'd realized. 

Oliver doesn't know for certain that Clint would've been the sort of guy who'd roll his eyes and tell him to pull his shit together, that things are still going to hell while they're tiptoeing around each other, and that at some point, they're going to have to man up and do something about it, so it might as well be now. It's the same kind of thing Diggle would've told him, that Felicity would've drilled into his head for a week, and _Christ_ , he misses them, too. 

It would be easier if Daryl was being an asshole about it, if he'd just goad Oliver into a fight. Since he's not, though, it would mean that at best, Oliver would be kicking him when he's down. At worst, he'd be crossing another line, deliberately this time. 

So instead, he stops himself from seeking Daryl out and making things _worse_ , and he goes about his day. Keeps busy, tries to keep his eyes off the gate whenever he hears that Daryl's gone over the fence. Tries not to wish too hard for things to go back to the way they'd been. He's been wishing that, in one form or another, for years now, and it hasn't done shit. 

It's on day six or seven of this that he ducks into the cell to grab a warmer shirt before heading back out to the garden. He's wondering if the heater in the bathhouse is working and contemplating stopping in to clean up when he realizes there's someone standing there. 

It takes him a moment to realize it isn't Daryl, and the disappointment is startling, the way it chokes off the sudden surge of misplaced relief so quickly. 

"We need to talk." It's Fury, standing there with his hands behind his back. It's a simple request, but it's direct, and Oliver's not ready for it.

He nods to buy himself some time. Apart from the soldiers who've been helping out around the prison, the ones in charge have mostly been keeping to themselves. He hasn't even seen Coulson in two days. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Longer than I would have liked. Coulson's finished his upload, and has made the suggestion that we bring you, Daryl, and Rick in to plan our next move."

"Yeah. Okay." Oliver glances around as if any of them are likely to appear, but aside from the kids running around upstairs, it's just the two of them here. It's the only reason he lets himself ask. "How's Phil doing, anyhow?"

Fury smirks, his stature easing a bit. "You are aware of his condition, I presume?"

"Yeah, but. He seems pretty human."

"He is, for all intents in purposes." Fury nods. "But to answer your question, he's miserable and frustrated. He wants to get back to the mission and move on."

"Because of the programming?"

"Technically, I suppose, yes, but no. Coulson's always been like that." Fury steps around Oliver and out of the cell. "After supper, we're meeting up at the truck."

\--- 

It ain't these peoples' fault that Clint got killed and Oliver's as fucked up over it as he is, but _shit_ , Daryl doesn't want to be here, standing inside the larger of the two trucks that have been parked in the yard all week. The electronics scattered everywhere are blinking in ways he doesn't understand, and he can't make himself look away. Fury and Coulson are moving around the cramped space, looking at computer monitors that must mean something to them. Fury's talking quietly into his phone about something called an enervation intensifier- whatever that is, it doesn't appear to work- and by the time he hangs up, Coulson's already waving him over on to talk about relay protocols. 

At least they're ignoring his gawking from the doorway. He just don't feel like sitting down. Outside, he knows there are people staring at the truck- they've been doing it ever since it came through the gate- but so far as he knows, nobody who didn't come with it has ventured inside. The damned thing is huge, literally built like a tank.

"The owner of a behemoth like that," Hershel had told him at dinner, "either has authority, or is looking to take it." It's been making people nervous, Daryl included, and the soldiers who've set up camp next to it haven't been helping. Agent May, for her part, is prone to staring at anyone who goes so far as to glance towards the monster. 

There's no doubt in his mind that she's aware of his presence, but she's as good at ignoring people as she is at glaring. She's sitting in the driver's seat and staring out the window; Daryl, for the moment, is beneath her interest. He's only here on Rick's insistence, anyway, and because he figures he owes the guy. And at least Rick's sitting there looking equally dumbfounded. It could have something to do with the woman, Hill, who's sitting across the table from him. She only looks up from her notepad to look blankly at him, and doesn't seem to have much to say. 

He wonders if Rick's trying to figure out her uniform, too. She, like Fury, is wearing all black, but unlike Fury she's not wearing a leather jacket, and the eagle on her arm matches the one Clint had worn on his chest. _Clint_ is the only reason he hasn't told these people to fuck off, but he's still not certain he's planning on extending his trust out a whole lot further. 

Rick, on the other hand, is trying not to stare at the eagle, the same way Daryl caught himself doing when he'd first seen the badge on Rick's chest when they'd first met. He seems wary, like he's waiting to see which way things are going to go. 

The next time the door opens, Oliver steps up and inside, checking the corners and edging over to stand next to him without speaking, and for a moment, it feels like they're shoring up their defenses. 

The next moment, it's gone. Oliver's wearing his green leathers, but the shirt underneath isn't the one he'd been wearing this morning. His hair is still damp, combed back out of his face, and he smells clean, like soap. Which explains where he'd been during dinner, not that Daryl had been looking. But by comparison, he himself is filthy, still covered in grime from finally getting that damned generator out of the truck they'd left by the collapsed bridge. 

He wipes his hands on his jeans, hopes nobody notices. Edges a few inches away in case he stinks, but Oliver tracks the movement, glances over at him. He'd shaved, too, Daryl realizes. He looks good.

Eventually, Fury scowls up at them, waves them towards the table he and Coulson are moving to, joining Rick and Hill. 

"Don't look so nervous, everyone," Fury smirks, sitting down at the head of the table. "This is not a tribunal, just an informational exchange. One which hopefully may turn tactical." 

It's a tight fit; there's barely enough room for the six of them; he's got no idea how anything gets done when the soldiers parked outside are all jammed inside. The benches and table are immaculately clean, though, and Daryl can practically feel the grime from his jeans rubbing into the seat's fabric as he sits down next to Oliver, feeling like he should apologize. 

As everyone huddles around the table, hemming them in on all sides, he's just starting to realize that maybe, he should've been thinking about it sooner.  
\--- 

"So," Rick asks, since nobody else is speaking. "What's on the docket?"

"First of all, in case it hasn't been said, we want to thank you for letting us set up shop in your camp. And, in case nobody gets the chance to say it, thank you for taking Barton in. He was a good agent, and we were all glad to hear he'd met up with some good people when we lost contact."

Oliver grits his teeth over something sarcastic and forgets not to look at Coulson, who's straightening his stack of notepads carefully. He doesn't look happy. There's a chance that exhaustion is a feature that's been programmed out of him, but now isn't the time to ask.

"Here's the news from outside, none of which will probably surprise you," Fury continues. "Every major city in the world has fallen, with the exception, as far as can be told, of a few small islands that are, for all intents and purposes, quarantined."

Rick doesn't bother hanging on to his his jovial expression, but it had seemed forced in the first place. "Why's that?"

"Lack of resources that would support any meaningful refugee population," Fury says. "Preservation of the human race, if it comes down to it. But we're working to see that it doesn't go that far."

"Yeah?" Daryl rolls his eyes. "And just how's that going for you?"

Fury glares at him, not rising to the bait, but his eyes pass over him quickly and move on to the others. "I'll spare you the details, of which there are many, and get right to it. Not long after the outbreak, we back traced the virus back to what we believe is the area of the source. The virus had spread so quickly and completely that the trail's been obliterated, and now it's more like looking for a needle in a bombed out haystack. Finding the source, in order to find a cure doesn't seem like a likely outcome with our current strategy." Fury sighs, flipping through his notepad and looking up. "We _do_ know that it's man made. Now, would you like me to go into the nitty gritty details about research methods, or no?"

"Maybe later," Rick says.

"All right, then. So. Our lead researcher had made a certain amount of progress, but he disappeared a few weeks ago. Three days ago, he came back."

It's a strange detail to mention. Oliver's opening his mouth without thinking. "What happened there?"

"Turns out the onset of a zombie apocalypse has a tendency to exacerbate any anger management issues an individual might have," Coulson explains. "It happens. He's back in containment and back at work."

Oliver frowns. " _Containment_?" 

"Another story for another day," Fury glances warningly at Coulson, who doesn't even blink. "Basically, we've had some delays. Now, our guy, he's convinced that the virus was not only man-made, but that it's undergone some kind of mutation. But nothing we're throwing at it makes sense. There's no presence of the usual markers that we look for when dealing with traditional chemical warfare." 

"Which means that we need more data," Coulson cuts in, looking directly at Oliver. "And we think you're our best lead."

Oliver blinks. "What?" 

"Clint briefed me on everything the evening I arrived, including the notes you found in Woodbury."

"Yeah, but I barely looked at them, and-"

Hill folds her hands on the table, looking annoyed. "Mister Queen, he said that you figured out how it had started."

Oliver shakes his head, frowning in confusion. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I was sick, and if I told him anything, I don't remember what it was."

Fury glares at him. "You're sure about that?"

" _Yeah_ , I'm sure." Under the table, his hands are fists. Next to him, Daryl's sitting, straight and still, like he, too, is preparing for a fight. "What reason do I have to hold out on you?"

"Plenty, as far as can be told," Fury says, sliding a file folder out from underneath his notepad and setting it in the middle of the table. It's a deliberate move, meant to direct his attention carefully. "We've been interested in your career for quite some time, now. Ever since your return to Starling City."

He doesn't need to guess how badly things are about to go. It's all just sitting right there. The only thing from stopping Daryl, Rick and everyone from knowing the things he's done- that he's _had_ to do. His family's involvement. Maybe even Felicity's and Diggle's as well, and they're not even _alive_ any more, but that only means they're not here to defend themselves. It's all on him. 

Grabbing for the folder will look like an admission of guilt, but he doesn't have the chance. 

"The hell?" Daryl grabs it first, out of nowhere, sliding it close with a hand over the cover. He doesn't open it, but his hands won't have far to move if he wants them to. The expression on his face, when Oliver glances over, is mutinous. But it's not directed at him. Not yet.

Lines are being drawn, and this time, the two of them are on the same side, but Daryl doesn't know what's under his hand, yet. All Oliver can do is wonder how badly it'll go, what he's going to have to do to salvage anything out of any of this. 

Hill leans back in her chair, sweeping her eyes over all of them before landing again on Oliver. "Apologies for our bluntness, but you all need to know. People exhibiting vigilante tendencies are not known for having an overabundance of trust in others."

Rick snorts, rolling his eyes as he interrupts. "Who _is_ , these days?"

Hill juts her chin towards Daryl, her eyes not leaving Rick. "What he's holding there predates the outbreak. Numerous cases of Mr. Queen, taking the law into his own hands in order to make sure the world operates according to _his_ vision of what he thinks the world should be." She looks at Oliver. "I'm sorry. For all of this." It's a lie. "But when someone like you joins forces with one of our agents, we have to assume that you're working an angle."

"I wasn't," he replies, but Daryl's the one with the folder. He's the one who needs to hear it, though Oliver doesn't quite manage to look at him. Forcing himself to take a mental step back, he sighs. "I didn't even know who he was at first. And yes. I _was_ looking for answers, so I stuck around. But I had no ulterior motives." 

Daryl nods, just visible in his periphery, but Fury's nodding too, and it feels like a signal. 

"Mr. Dixon," Coulson says, quietly, glancing up at the wall over their heads. "Please open the folder." 

The urge to snatch it out of his hands is strong, but proves unnecessary. Daryl slides it back towards the middle of the table with a snort and a grumbled, "fuck this shit." 

The others are all staring; Oliver doesn't need to look up to know. And it's not like it matters what Fury thinks, but he's surrounded in on all sides. 

Getting out clean isn't an option. So he might as well get in front of it. 

Reaching out, he lifts up the cover and glances down at the first page, and can't stop the startled snort he lets out. 

He spreads the printouts on the table, barely glancing at any of them them, before leaning back. His back hits the wall. 

"Seriously?" If he weren't so pissed right now, he'd manage the smirk better. " _Newspaper_ clippings?"

Daryl picks up the one that's closest to him. It's gossip-column coverage from some fundraiser Oliver can't even remember, from some time in his first year back off the island, because yes, he's standing there next to Laurel- he doesn't even need to read the caption to know what kind of crap it's spewing- but Felicity and Diggs are standing off in the background, leaning towards each other, talking. 

Fuck, he misses them. 

The rest of the clippings are pretty much the same. Some are older, a few, he hadn't even known about. Some of them predate the island. But one headline stands out. 

_Oliver Queen Arrested on Suspicion of Murder_.

Rick's looking at that one with particular interest, turning it to read the first paragraph or so, and Oliver holds his breath. 

"Suspicion isn't conviction," Rick eventually says, his eyes shooting up to Fury before moving on to Oliver. He's searching for something, and Oliver doesn't let himself look away. After a moment, Daryl's posture relaxes next to him, as he turns his attention back to the society pages.

"If it makes you feel any better, that's not all we've got," Fury says, "But I'm not in the habit of showing my hand."

Oliver snorts. "You've got nothing."

Culson coughs. "To the contrary," he smiles, as if this is a conversation and not an interrogation. "We got exactly what we needed." He nods pointedly up at the wall Oliver's sitting against. When he turns to look, he sees another monitor there, and a whole lot of numbers that don't make any sense. "Basic lie detector and reaction monitor, it's been tracking you since you sat down. You're all clear, by the way."

"You've got the tech to tell you everything, apparently." Rick gestures at the folder's contents with a sneer. "So why mess with all this?" 

"It was a convenient opportunity," Coulson replies, with an apologetic shrug. "Misunderstandings and accusations tend to bring out aspects of personalities that casual interviews don't tend to catch."

"Yes," Fury says, "but we'll get back to that in a minute. In the meantime, the question remains. Barton said you had an idea on where this all came from."

Oliver probably would've walked out by now, if it weren't for Daryl blocking his exit. "Seriously. I told you. I don't remember anything I said at the lab."

"The source of the outbreak _was_ Starling City, wasn't it?" 

Oliver blinks. "Yeah. I mean, I think so." He's got whiplash, wonders what he'd missed. "But you were asking about Woodbury. You said I told Clint-"

Shaking his head, Daryl nudges his arm. "Before we got there, you talked about it." He's whispering, though nobody here's pretending not to listen. If he does notice, he doesn't care. "We were still in Barnesville." 

Coulson nods. "Again, our misdirection was necessary. Agent Barton _did_ report that, while you were all still gathered at that sporting goods store, you were able to provide a more concrete location than we'd previously been able to lock down." 

Fury folds his hands on the table and leans forward. "He also confirmed something we've been looking into, namely, Malcolm Merlyn's involvement, and stated that you believe you know what it was that created the mutation."

Now that he's got the thread, the entire thing's unraveling. "The liners in the containment tanks," he says, before he's even had a chance to think about it. "Friend of mine figured it out. Found some memos, ran it by a chemist. By the time it was confirmed, though, there wasn't anyone left to tell." He sits up straight. "And before you decide this is another vague detail to exploit, _no_. I _don't_ have any more information."

"That's fine," Fury says. "Though I would like you to take a moment and appreciate the resourcefulness of your friends. They managed to figure out something that several of the smartest people I know can't get their heads around."

Oliver sneers. This is exhausting. "Yeah," he says, leaning back to glare. "It's a pity they're not around for you to recruit them."

"I have a feeling," Coulson smirks, gesturing at the printouts scattered around the table, "that your friends were quite good at staying under our radar."

"Let's hope so."

"Let's hope that you're _half_ as smart as your friends," Fury replies. "Because you _are_ here, and despite ourselves, we're open and recruiting."

Oliver glares back at him, his hands on the table top. "Well, best of luck to you, then." Following his movements, Daryl stands as well. Maybe it's the line that's been redrawn, or maybe he's just letting Oliver escape. 

"Mister Queen."Hill's half out of her seat, as if she's planning on chasing him down. 

"I know this is your truck, your operation," Rick cuts in, poised as if to stand, but his tone is conversational. "But your authority ends where the tires hit the ground. You might want to consider either changing your approach, or rolling on elsewhere. Just a suggestion." 

Hill grimaces, glancing at Coulson and Fury as she pauses to think, and sits down again. "Noted and filed," she says, her nose wrinkling apologetically. Coulson, on the other hand, just looks contrite.

And Oliver can't move any further, because Daryl's blocking his way. It's the longest he's looked at Oliver in days. "Hold up. Did Clint mention knowing anything about Sterling City before you brought it up?"

"Starling City," Oliver corrects him. It's a small transmission of information- not the one that matters, but it buys him a few seconds. He hadn't been planning on thinking about that- he can't remember- until he'd put this conversation and this behemoth of a truck behind him. 

Coulson spares him the attempt. "He was under orders not to broadcast the information, or our long term plans, outside of SHIELD."

"That's stupid," Oliver counters, too tired to sugarcoat it. "What's the point in hiding it?"

"We ran the odds. Seemed likely that if someone found out about it, they'd have the same idea we've got- to go back there to search for answers, and be utterly unprepared for what they found." 

"So why press on it now?" Daryl squints most of the time, and most of the time it doesn't mean anything. But when he turns it on Fury, he sounds skeptical.

"That test, it was for both of you," Fury says. "We wanted to see how you would work as a unit."

Oliver just wants a minute to let his brain catch up. "What do you mean?"

"I told him to open the file, he gave it to you instead. Why?"

"I don't know." He shrugs, glancing sidelong at Daryl before glaring back at Fury. "Because he knew it wasn't any of his business?"

"Exactly. Most people, faced with an interrogation in a tank would try to avoid the aggressor's bad side. They'd play along, unless there was someone there whose allegiance they were more concerned about keeping."

He has no idea what to make of this. "That's a stupid way of testing it."

"That, combined with the lie detector, told us everything we needed without giving away anything vital." Fury leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "Believe me, as far as our screening process goes, you got off easy." 

"So?"

"So?" Fury rolls his eye. "We're looking to save the world, here, and you two are our best shot."

Daryl scoffs, eyebrows raised like he's not buying any of this, either. "You serious?"

"Of course. You had his back without being told you needed to, and _you_ ," he turns to Oliver, "might be the last person on Earth who knows his way around Starling City. And, think of me what you like, but I'm not a complete idiot. I'm not going to suggest to the Sheriff, here, that I'm looking to take away two people who, as I hear it, are vital to the continued survival of the community before I'm sure of them. Not on a mere _whim_. So here we are."

Rick sighs, but he sits down, and Daryl shrugs, gesturing back at the table and looking back up at Oliver again. 

It would be better, maybe, if the two of them had the chance to talk it out without everyone else getting in the way. Daryl's looking back at him, dead silent, but they've hunted together. And while they might not be great at actually speaking, as the last few days have proven, Oliver can still read him with a glance. 

"Okay," he says, pausing in case he's wrong and Daryl wants to cut in. He doesn't, unfortunately, so Oliver sits down. "We're in. How do you want to do this?"

\--- 

It's late, by the time they manage to reach an agreement, and it looks like most everyone's turned in for the night as Daryl crosses the yard, heading towards the bath house. 

In three days, they're going to leave. There isn't much packing to be done, but there's plenty of work to do. Everyone's got experience with some sort of weapon these days, but Rick's people, a lot of them have no idea how to even set a snare, much less _hunt_. He and Oliver, they're going to try to get them up to speed as best they can, and two of the soldiers are going to stay behind to help protect the prison.

He knows he should be figuring out how to explain _tracking_ , but he's too distracted by how dark everything seems after so many hours in a brightly lit room. He's not used to it any more, and his night vision is off. 

That's what he's telling himself, anyway. He'd spent half of the evening staring at the table while Rick and Fury talked logistics. Some things never changed. You get yourself a prison, pretty damn quick you've got the Sheriff negotiating the terms of your release. He'd tried to listen, chimed in when he'd needed to, and it wasn't that he hadn't been interested. It's just that his eyes had kept catching the papers on the table. They'd reflected the track lighting so sharply that the images are still burned into his retinas.

There'd been a picture of Oliver, taken at some sort of fancy party. In it, he'd had short hair, a nice suit, and a girl on his arm in an evening gown. He'd even been smiling, wide. This was what Oliver's life had looked like, before the world ended. 

Perfect. 

Apart from the geeks and the absence of Merle and cold beer, Daryl's really life doesn't look all that much different than it had been; getting by and hunting on the good days. Back when there'd still been enough people to think that maybe this wasn't permanent, Merle had been convinced that the two of them had been _made_ for this, that their shit lives had actually set them up for this for a _reason_. For a while there, Daryl had believed him. Sometimes, he thinks, right down to the end. 

If the world hadn't gone to shit, though, he and Oliver- or Clint or Hershel or Glenn, Michonne or anyone- would never have crossed paths, never would've had the reason to. But if he'd crossed paths with Oliver, before, Daryl wouldn't have even registered on his radar as existing at all. 

People like him didn't show up in pictures like Oliver's. He and his filth are about as far from being a pretty girl in a party dress as it's possible to get. 

_Fuck it_ , he decides, turning on his heel. Cleaning up can wait until morning. He just needs some sleep. Needs to stop thinking all this stupid shit.

\--- 

Oliver tries to hang onto the irritation, if only to stave off the thinking process; it won't lead him anywhere good. It carries him straight to his cell before he realizes that Daryl's not there. He's not sure why he'd thought it would be otherwise.

He shouldn't be surprised. Even if there had been a minute or two there, back into the behemoth, where it felt like the ice was thawing. But Daryl had gone quieter as the talks droned on, staring at the pictures on the table the whole while. Oliver would've snatched them away, if it hadn't meant making it a _thing_. 

When Fury had brought out the folder, he'd been sure that every single murder he'd done- no point in splitting hairs now- would be spelled out in black and white, along with a hefty summary report of his failure to even consider his mother's involvement in the Undertaking. He'd been sure that the ways he'd fucked over Diggle would be represented, and Felicity too. Tommy's death, all the attacks on Laurel, all his sins laid out, damning, in black and white. 

He'd scoffed, when he'd seen the fundraiser pictures. But the longer they sat out, the more troubling they'd become. Only one picture existed showing what he'd looked like on the boat coming back from the island. It was the only one he'd recognized himself in, and it had spent the better part of the evening underneath Rick's elbow. Everything that came after, all the society page clippings, was a lie. He'd known it at the time. 

But every picture that came from before the island? Pretty much just the shameful truth. Oliver Queen, the stupid rich kid fuck up who didn't deserve the things he had. Who _knew_ it, and just _didn't give a damn_. The brat who flaunted everything he's never had to work for, treated people like shit, and _reveled_ in it. The useless asshole who'd taken five years to kill off.

He's pretty sure Daryl could've taken care of it in a day or so; given the way he'd been looking over the pictures, he might not have even minded. And it's just so stupid, because _nobody_ , these days, is who they'd been before the outbreak. 

Oliver doesn't know much about Daryl, or his past, really. One of the first and only things Daryl ever said about himself was that he'd had a brother, but the only reason Oliver even knows the guy's name- Merle- is because Carol had mentioned it once. She'd called him a sore spot, and he had the sense that she'd been speaking diplomatically. Oliver's wanted to ask Daryl about it, but impracticalities haven't been on the docket since Clint died. 

Tonight, there are a lot of practicalities- what they're doing, and how they're going to do it- that need to be hashed out. They'd both agreed to the plan, but Oliver doesn't know if it's because Daryl's thinking it's a _good_ plan. As far as he can tell, Daryl only sided with him at all because Fury was the bigger asshole. He'd really like to ask him, but Daryl had left the moment Fury'd dismissed them. He'd disappeared completely by the time Oliver had made it out of the truck, and if he'd wanted to talk, he would've stuck around. And if Oliver actually had any ground to stand on, if he'd ever actually managed to prove himself to the guy, he might've followed him. 

What ground he'd managed to gain in that department, though, had started washing out from underneath him the day he made Daryl kill Clint, and what little remained had eroded completely later that night. When he'd crawled, sniveling, into Daryl's bed. 

They'd both been fucked up about Clint, and he'd been too fucked up to think how it must've looked, or how Daryl would react come morning. If he'd just allowed it because he was too fucked up to realize, while they'd been lying there, that Oliver was taking advantage. 

There hadn't been sex, it hadn't been _about_ sex, or anything like it. He'd just thought, somehow, stupidly, that maybe it would help. 

Nothing that's happened tonight's changed anything. He still feels like a rapist. 

So yeah, really. He shouldn't be surprised that Daryl's not pounding down his door.


	18. Chapter 18

By the time the sun comes up, the worst of the cold front's moved on, not that anyone's got the time to sit on their ass and talk about the weather. There are traps and snares to be built, and of the dozen or so people starin' at him like it's the first day of class, not one of them knows how to tie a damn knot. 

Daryl had been a terrible student himself, and it turns out, he's not much of one for teaching, either. He's not sure how long he can keep faking it. He keeps catching himself halfway to wandering off when the impatience sets in, or forgetting that he's supposed to be talking when he glances up to find everyone staring at him. Any minute now, the people watching him are going to realize that the real reason their snares aren't working is because he's just not cut out to be explaining this shit. 

Jeanette, down at the end in the greasy ponytail, doesn't look as nervous as she had the last time she'd watched Daryl do anything at all, but it ain't like he's fighting his brother to the death for her entertainment this time around. If he thinks on it too long, Daryl's liable to say something stupid and honest, and instead of teaching these people how to feed themselves, he'll start a fight nobody else cares about. The Governor had been an asshole, and the Woodbury folks had been too terrified of him to go against him, so they'd played along. End of fucking story. 

Daryl's blowing this badly enough. Letting himself get distracted will only make it worse. 

But across the yard, Oliver looks to be having better luck with the weapons training. Those that aren't practicing are sharpening blades, banging rocks together, stringing bows. Oliver's constantly moving throughout the group, managing to get in close without seeming to get in the way. Crouching down to give Carl some pointers with his flintknapping, or correcting Patrick's stance as he tries to hit the target with the knife.

The fifth or sixth time he glances over, Oliver's standing next to Carol, his arms bracketing hers as he positions her grip on the bow, and Daryl forgets what he'd been talking about. 

"Like this?" Beth's finished jamming the last of the spikes she's carved into the wall of the hole she'd dug, the points aiming downward. It's just a model, only a foot or so deep, and the ground at the surface is a bit loose with all the repositioning, but it's a start. 

"Yeah," Daryl says, tamping the loose soil down around the edges before kicking some leaves over the top. If it's cold enough, the ground'll freeze and it'll all stay in place, just fine. "Anything that steps in will have a hard time getting out, even if it's this shallow. Deeper you dig it, the more spikes you set, the better your odds."

She nods, satisfied, and Daryl backs off to check the one that Ian's working on. The hole he's dug is a lot deeper, but his points are more blunt. Daryl doesn't mean to glance up as he's telling Ian as much. Oliver's still working with Carol on her shooting, warning her of his presence with a hand on her back as he sidles up next to her again, this time on the other side. 

And this time, Oliver glances up. Catches Daryl looking. He's focused again on Carol an instant later; her attention hasn't left the target at all, like Oliver's hand on her shoulder doesn't even register. 

So there's really no good reason for Daryl to be noticing it from all the way over here.

He nearly steps into another pit, has to stumble to keep his balance. If he'd managed to get Jessie up to speed with the wood carving- if the spikes had already been finished and planted- he'd be in a world of hurt right now. 

At least, he decides, stepping carefully away from the edge, it would've made for a good demonstration. 

\--- 

"You're going to cut your thumb off, if you hold it like that," Oliver says, not for the first time, and leans over to adjust Glenn's hold on the chunk of chert he's trying to make useful. "See, the flakes come off the core like this," he mimes striking the chert at the correct angle, "and it'll cut denim like anything." Glen grimaces in frustration, but he drags the scrap of hide up over his leg, and tries again. This time, at least the leather's there to stop him from severing anything important. 

If they make it through the day without anyone bleeding out, it'll be a good day.

Carol's having better luck, now that she's slowed down. The jacket he'd loaned her to protect her leg is going to need some repairs, what with all the cuts she's put into the leather, but at least she's slowing down, going more carefully. The point she's working on is far too big to be hafted onto an arrow shaft- it's more of a lopsided knife than anything- but it'll come in handy this afternoon, when he's going to get into the basics of hide tanning. 

Carl's joined in today as well, though he probably doesn't actually need to. This week alone, he's probably spent twenty or thirty hours messing around with different kinds of rock. Apart from asking questions that Oliver hadn't honestly been equipped to answer- the closest he'd come to lessons were Yao Fei's attempts to make him into something slightly less pathetic than he'd been- he'd kept quiet. The fact that he was supposed to be making sure Judith was napping, rather than flintknapping, might've had something to do with it. When Rick had come out to see what they were doing, he'd hunched his shoulders defensively, like he'd assumed Rick had thought he'd been making a nuisance of himself.

"Trial and error," was all he'd said when Rick asked how he'd made his first two attempts. "Oliver showed me some stuff." He'd hung his head so quickly, then, that he'd nearly missed the ridiculous amount of pride on his father's face. Oliver had busied himself cleaning up some of the debris, since moving away to give them some space would be too obvious. He hadn't seen anything else.

Now that he's showing up half a dozen adults at the same task, though, he's not bothering to hide the gloating. Another few years, he's going to be a force to be reckoned with, but Oliver's not an idiot. He's no Yao Fei. He's only got a few more days before he leaves, and the odds that he'll make it back to see Carl grow up to be _whatever_ he'll be, they're not great. 

\--- 

There's no telling whether the past two days of Boy Scout Camp have done what Rick had wanted, but a deal's a deal. Hill and two of the eight soldiers- Myers and Briggs, which had stuck Carol as funny- are staying behind to help bolster the defenses and maintain the communications equipment. For all Daryl knows, hell, that'll be a step up from two hunters who can't even manage to talk to each other. 

And yeah, maybe it's time he does something about that. But Oliver's already packed and cleared out of his cell when he arrives. It's not until he goes outside that he finds him, but he's talking with Carl, showing him something on the bow that Carl's made, and there are half a dozen kids watching them like it's television. 

The shit they need to hash out doesn't need an audience, and he turns on his heel, nearly crashing into Coulson. 

"Half an hour," Coulson sidesteps, walking past him with a case full of gear. Briggs nods at Daryl, following closely behind with another. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

He's not, actually, and he's only now just realizing it. Carol's shift in with the tower hadn't yet ended when he'd seen the others at breakfast, and he owes her more than a "so long" as he's driving off. 

He drops his bag off by the truck, nodding at Myers briefly before heading down to the garden, where Carol's bent over something in the dirt. She's pulling weeds and, he realizes as he gets closer, humming along with whatever she's listening to on her walkman. The geek gaping on the other side of the fence ten feet away is just standing there, and taking it out is an afterthought, more than anything. Something to fill the time. 

She doesn't even glance over at it once it goes down, just smiles up at Daryl and takes her headphones off. Over her shoulder, not that he's looking, he catches sight of Oliver and Carl, up on the rise, walking towards the target they'd rigged up yesterday. The click as she presses the button might be the loudest sound he's heard all morning. 

"Hey Daryl."

"Hey." 

"You all packed up?" She gets to her feet and brushes the mud off her knees as he nods. "Good. Well. You know..." she shrugs. There's three more geeks heading towards the fence, moving to meet them before they get the chance to latch onto the fence seems prudent. "At least it'll be something other than this, right?" She grabs the nearest crowbar from where it's lying on the ground; they're not going to be able to keep leaving the fence clearing tools scattered around like this if it actually snows for real. He grabs his knife from his belt and moves to stand next to her, facing the fence. After waiting for all three to line themselves against the fence, it only takes a half minute or so to dispatch them. 

There's more coming every day, though, and the crowbars and pikes are going to rust away eventually. 

"This could all just be a wild goose chase," he says, wiping off the pike before dropping it where he'd found it. 

She nods thoughtfully, still scanning out past the fence. "Even so, at least it's proactive. You trust them? Fury?"

"Hell no. But he's got wheels and a plan. Counts for something, I guess." 

"At least Oliver will be there to have your back."

He doesn't even realize that he's letting anything show until she frowns up at him, reading something there that she doesn't like. 

"Hey. I know you, and I'm getting to know him. When the shit hits the fan, he'll be there."

"I..."

"If a walker was closing in on him right now, would you let it kill him?"

He scoffs. "No."

"Then that's all you need, right?" Finally, she relents, takes a step back. "It's a start, anyway." There's some weight to her words that doesn't sit right. 

"What do you mean?"

Her eyebrows raise up and everything as she stares back at him, but it's not an answer.

He smirks, it's deliberate. "You plannin' on making any sort of sense any time soon, or should I come back later?"

She's supposed to laugh, or at least smile. She does neither of these things. "He looks for you, you know. When you're not looking." When she pauses, he does too. She must be reading something he doesn't want to show on his face, but he doesn't even know what it is until she continues. "Same as you do him."

For a moment, he thinks that his lack of response is enough that she'll drop it, but he can't figure out how to change the subject, and he's out of time, because Carol's decided something, and, because she's Carol, she's saying it. 

"Daryl. You _are_ allowed to care about him." He could walk away right now, but she's staring at him intently, and there's no good answer. A _no_ will just drag this out longer. Anything else will just confirm whatever nonsense she's got in her head. Staring at her like a fucking idiot isn't faring him much better, but he's spinning out, here. 

"What d'you..." Damn it, he can't even string two words together, it's just- she's just _frustrating_. "The hell's with you, anyway? You think you're a mindreader all of a sudden?"

He realizes his mistake the instant the words are out, but there's no taking them back.

"It's okay," she says, stepping towards him when he steps back. If she _were_ a mindreader, she'd be letting this shit drop, right fucking _now_. "There's nothing wrong with it."

He shakes his head; it feels like he's choking. "That ain't. I'm not. Like that."

_Can't be_.

She backs up a step, looks at the ground, only she's not backing down- hasn't backed down from anything in a while, now, truth be told. She's giving him space. 

"A lot of people aren't, Daryl. At least, they weren't. But. Not to be...vulgar or anything, but. You remember what happened with Lori?"

The woman's givin' him whiplash. "Huh?"

"For a lot of us, _that's_ what pregnancy looks like now. And there's a whole host of things that come along with knowing that, but a lot of us..." She sighs, mutters something about sounding like a sociology textbook. "Look. All I'm saying is this. There's nothing wrong with grabbing a hold of something good to keep the nights at bay."

He wants to ask her just what the fuck she knows about anything happening at night, or why the fuck she seems to know whatever the fuck she knows, but he can't swallow to speak, and anyway, he's out of time. Up on the hill, Coulson's waving at him, gesturing towards the truck.

It's time to go, and he knows a reprieve when he sees it.

She walks with him, back up towards the trucks, and she's got the best damned poker face he's ever seen, but it breaks when she grins apologetically at him, putting a hand on his arm before they make it half way. 

"Be careful. I'll see you soon." She's stronger than she looks, when she hugs him. "But, just in case you were wondering what it looks like, someone having your back? It's a lot like this," She tightens her hold, just for a second, before backing up and nodding over his shoulder. Oliver's watching them, dropping his gaze down to his pack the moment Daryl looks. "And it's also a lot like that." 

\--- 

The engine's running by the time he makes it to the Suburban, and Daryl's already sitting inside, glaring out the opposite window so firmly that Oliver has to reassess his previous thoughts. Daryl hadn't been avoiding him, these past few days. 

_This_ is what Daryl Dixon looks like, when he's well-and- _truly_ avoiding someone. Arms crossed, jaw tense, leaning away from him as far as he possibly can in the confines of the back seat. 

He tells himself it's a good counterpoint to what they'd left behind in the yard. An entire retinue of people had shown up to see them off, and the hands Oliver had shaken, the earnest grins he'd received from everyone, they'd reminded him mainly of unending, desperate charity functions he'd gone to, in some life before this. Everyone keeping their smiles in rigidly in place to cover up how much they _want_. 

They're not going to get very far in this monster of a truck if the roads get tight, but they'll make it a lot farther than the behemoth that's following them out of the yard. Apparently they're going to be splitting off in a few days; the huge truck's entire purpose, it turns out, is to be a communications base and relay station.

It actually makes a fair amount of sense, when Oliver considers it. It'll reduce the delay of getting the information back to the people who can use it, and the sooner they have it, the sooner they can all start hoping for a cure. It'll also mean that they only have to worry about getting _one_ vehicle through the Rockies. 

He hasn't asked, yet, who's going to stay with the Behemoth and who's going to come along to Sterling City and who's going to stay behind. Agent May's the only one who's made her position clear- she's staying in Cheyenne. Oliver doesn't know if it's rank or history that makes the others listen to her like they do. If she's staying, it's likely that Agent Ward will, too. 

It's unfortunate, though. The other two pairs of partners- DeStefano and Johnson, Carver and Loyola- never even go so far as to roll their eyes at their orders, let alone refuse them out right. It's a small thing, but potentially important. Depending on how this rolls out, he'd prefer to have people capable of making their own decisions at his back. 

DeStefano's the only woman on the team besides May, though she's friendlier. Carver and Johnson, in another world, would probably be playing college basketball and football, respectively. Of the lot of them, it's Loyola who's wearing the damage on his sleeve most plainly. Dark hair, dark circles under his eyes. Even though he gets along with the others easily enough, he's quiet. Angry.

Oliver hopes DeStefano's staying with the Behemoth. It's bad enough, trying to talk with any of them. Hell, it's bad enough trying to talk to Daryl, who's just sitting less than two feet and more than three thousand miles away.

This morning, Oliver had chosen to help Carl with his bow out in the yard, mostly because of the vantage point it had provided. He'd clocked Daryl the moment he'd set foot out on the grass, nearly crashing into Coulson, Myers, and the gear they'd been hauling into the prison. He'd gone straight for Carol, though, down in the garden, probably to say goodbye. Holding the frame taut so Carl could finish tying off the bowstring, he'd watched them clear a few walkers pressing up on the fence. They'd showed no signs of needing his help, and afterwards, showed every sign of not wanting to be interrupted. 

They'd been too far away to hear, but he could read their stances from forty yards. Daryl had gone ramrod straight, all crossed his arms and squared shoulders. Their difference in height wasn't enough that he'd have to lower his head like that to hear her; he'd been trying to hide. Carol's stance had been carefully calm, but she'd gotten in close. 

She'd been telling Daryl something she'd thought he'd needed to hear, and he hadn't liked it. They'd hugged it out on the way up the hill, though, and none of it is Oliver's business. 

It's just that he'd caught Daryl looking at him, and that he'd _been_ caught looking, and it probably doesn't mean anything. 

But what he keeps coming back to, is that it might.


	19. Chapter 19

They make surprisingly good time, heading northwest. The satellite imagery they've used to map their route is a few months out of date, but it's better than nothing. If it weren't for the Behemoth following them down the road, they wouldn't have to get out to shove any vehicles out of the way at all, the first day. 

Daryl does learn more than he'd like to about the Civil War, thanks to the audiobook DeStefano had thrown in when they'd hit Tennessee and Fury had finally shut up about their plans, but there's not much else by way of conversation to be had. 

For the most part, when it ain't his turn to drive, he just tries to sleep and fails, miserably. Right now, Oliver's sitting across the back seat from him; there's about a foot and a half of space between them, and most of that, Daryl figures, is filled with the crap Carol'd spouted at him back out in the yard. 

He's not going to admit that he's ever given it much thought. He'd seen a little, here and there, picked up mags out of curiosity- he'll deny it, if anyone got it in their head to ask- but mostly he'd heard the horror stories. Bitches, punks, faggots, the lot of it. 

He'd been in jail, just setting out on a three month possession-with-intent charge in a second-tier cell; it gave him a somewhat limited view of two tiers of cells across the commons. His third night in, he'd seen two guys going at it for the first time, dead silent, down on the first tier, and he hadn't been able to take his eyes away. 

There'd been no telling whether both guys had actually wanted it, or, if they _did_ , why the possibility was making him feel like he was choking. When Washington from the cell next door was attacked in the showers, three weeks later, his pained shouts had reverberated through the entire damned jail. That had been something else entirely. Hadn't clarified anything at all. 

Right then, though, he'd been frozen, watching them fuck for the better part of an hour, growing more and more convinced that the others- the inmates, guards, God and Mom and Merle- were watching _him_ in return. 

He'd felt sick, turned on, and doomed, all at once. Didn't know if he should alert someone, or _never_ speak of it to anyone. Didn't know what it had meant that he was even watching in the _first_ place. 

The three of them- the two below, and him up in his bunk- had been the most silent people in the world, right then. 

For weeks, afterwards, he'd looked for signs. The two of them would sit together at meals, showing no signs of being anything more than anyone was to anyone, in there. They'd talk, but Daryl never been able to catch anything definite. 

They never _seemed_ like queers, when the lights were on.

When the lights went out at night, he'd wait for his eyes to adjust to the never-total darkness, and he'd roll over on his elbows to look across. Some nights, he'd catch glimpses of them writhing on the bottom bunk. Sometimes he couldn't, and he'd roll back to stare at the stains on his ceiling and imagine whispered conversations that didn't belong to him. Some nights, he'd just squeeze his eyes shut, hating the pervert he'd apparently become. 

And then one day, he'd stepped out off his cell, gone through the doors, and found Merle waiting to drive him back home. He'd brought a six-pack with him and had two opened up before they'd even left the parking lot, and they'd toasted to _leaving all that shit behind._

And Daryl _had_. Mostly. 

But some nights, back at home, he'd lie awake, imagining another body crowded against his side and quiet words that only had inches to travel to be heard, and the habit hadn't ended when the world had.

And then, one night, in another prison cell, it actually _happened_ , or near enough, and even though he hadn't said _shit_ about it, the universe had managed to find out about him anyway. 

He still doesn't know what to do about it. Part of him wants to go back, find Carol, and ask her flat out exactly why she thinks she knows what she does, but she'd probably tell him. Mostly, he's just glad he doesn't have the option. They're going to clear eight hundred miles today, if Fury has his way. 

\---

When they finally do stop and reconvene with the Behemoth, it's late, but they're closer to Kansas City than Columbia, Missouri. It's the farthest he's been from home in his life, but it doesn't look much different than anywhere else, all things told, just a bit colder. 

"At this rate, with ideal conditions, we'll make Cheyenne tomorrow," Coulson says, once they're stretching their legs and starting to set up shop for the night, "Starling City, two days after that."

Fury snorts, glaring at Coulson. "That's predictably optimistic. What's the ETA with our actual conditions?"

Coulson shrugs. "A week?"

Still, though, it's better than walking. Daryl's knees are sore, though, from sitting on his ass in this cramped truck all day, and now that he's standing outside, he's feeling all of it. 

At least the air's fresh out here, though the cold's setting into his bones already Grabbing his crossbow from the back of the truck, he follows Fury's orders, partnering up with DeStefano to start making sweeps around the perimeter. 

It's too dark to see much of anything, but DeStefano's got her night vision goggles on. There's a gas station and a McDonald's a ways down the road that they're going to have to keep their eye on. If they weren't the only people with functioning power in five hundred miles, they'd probably be able to see the Kansas City skyline from here. 

Loyola intercepts their path on the third sweep and gestures towards the Behemoth. "It's good as it's gonna be. Let's go back and eat."

"We're on day two," DeStefano says, not explaining what she means. "Send Johnson out here."

Oliver's standing by the door, backlit for a moment when Loyola opens it to enter. He's got his hood up, and his eyes are unreadable. 

"Eat first. But we should talk," is all he says, and there it is, that choking feeling again.

\--- 

Dinner's not as awful as he's been dreading, though the MRE's are nothing to write home about. Carver, it turns out, had grown up in Kansas City, and it's probably fucking with him, being here and seeing it like this. Thankfully, he and Loyola are more interested in talking about arguing about the Chiefs and the Chargers. Nothing, not even a zombie apocalypse it seems, gets in the way of a good football rivalry. 

Fury and Coulson are leaning over the table talking military tactics from wars they'd never seen. It seems to be an ongoing argument, and is probably why Oliver'd had to spend eleven hours in the car, listening to that damned audiobook. It's all startlingly normal, and it's not even surprising when the soldiers break out the cards. Maybe it's just what healthy people do to cope. 

Maybe they're all faking it 'til they make it. 

Pulling on his coat, he heads outside to relieve Carver and DeStefano so they can go in to eat, get dealt in if they're feeling it. 

It's quiet out here, other than the noise coming from inside the Behemoth, rising when the door opens behind him and cutting out when it closes.

He knows it's Daryl before he even turns, and really, he could've used the last few minutes better. This _had_ been his idea, after all. 

"Hey," he says, but Daryl's shaking his head, waving at him to follow him back to the Suburban. Opening the side door, he reaches back over the seat and rummages around for a minute. When he emerges again, he's got a pack of smokes and a bottle of whiskey, which he holds out to Oliver. 

He's not sure if it's a peace offering, or just an acknowledgement that they're going to need it, but it's a better idea than anything he'd been planning. Twisting off the cap, he takes a swig, watching Daryl unwrap the cellophane off the smokes, thumbing one out and putting it in his mouth. As he digs in his pocket for a lighter, he holds the pack out.

"No thanks."

"Cool," Daryl shrugs, pocketing them, and winces as he lights up. "Going away present from Glenn," he mutters with a smirk. "Stale as shit."

"Here," Taking another pull, he passes the bottle back. Gives him a minute to down it and nods over his shoulder and heads towards the side of the road, sitting down on the gravel next to the still mostly-dry pavement, his feet towards the ditch. The sun's been set for a while, now, but there's a vague haze of light being reflected off the cloud cover. The vantage point's good, though there's not much of anything stands out, either- a field, a few patches of thin, crusted snow. A line of trees about a quarter of a mile away and the truck stop behind them. 

Daryl sits down next to him, no closer than he'd been in the car, but it's a lot closer than either of them have been by choice, lately. Oliver takes the bottle again, but the first two hits are already winding through his system. He doesn't want to need to be drunk for this. 

"So yeah... I know things have been weird with you and me, but the sooner we hash this out, the better." Daryl hums, but doesn't interrupt. "So. I'm sorry." It's not enough, and he knows it. _Shit_ , he's actually going to have to say it out loud. 

"You saved my life, but I should've been able to make the shot myself. And I'm sorry I went so nuts afterward." He takes a pull, holds it in his mouth so he can't use it to say something wrong, then swallows it down, and spite it out before he can stop himself. "I know I crossed a line, but I didn't mean to freak you out."

Daryl's quiet- Oliver hopes like hell he understands what he means- but he reaches out for the bottle. Oliver turns to glance at him while he's drinking, but Daryl's eyes are on him, nodding as he swallows. 

"It's cool," he eventually says, voice rough, and the seconds pass, leaving Oliver wondering if that was all the response he's going to get. The end of his cigarette burns bright and fades as he inhales, once and again as Daryl squints out at the treeline. 

"What happened with Clint, that's just...it happens, you know? And what happened after, it... That's not on you." He scowls, taking another swig, then sighs. "Way I see it, it takes two to tango. And I shouldn't have bailed like that."

_Two to tango_. Oliver _really_ wants to ask what he means, but there's only so much pressure one conversation can hold. He latches on to what Daryl had said next instead. "Where were you crashing, anyway?"

Daryl actually smirks. "The shed behind the garage where all the teenagers hang out."

"Really?" It wouldn't have been his first choice; he'd assumed, based on its proximity to all those hormones with nowhere to go, it would've been seeing heavy use. 

"Just doing my part to stem the tide of unplanned teen pregnancy." The grin's gone from his face the instant he says it, and his entire demeanor shifts back into something more subdued. "We good, then?"

"Yeah," Oliver says, grabbing the bottle and toasting him with it, but joviality feels forced now, even to him. "We're good."

\--- 

It's fucking weird, being this well stocked on the supply front, and it's making Daryl uneasy. There's no need to go hunting, no excuse to leave. 

Hell, everything is. There's only so many times a man can strip down his gear, clean it off, and reassemble it. They'd traded vehicles this morning, though the damned audiobook's made its way to the Behemoth, now, and short of sticking his fingers in his ears, there's no avoiding it. Hell, even the sound of DeStefano and Fury up front, talking about some Good Old Days in Munich aren't setting him at ease. 

The notebooks they'd brought from Woodbury aren't making any damned sense. He's been reading the same page for an hour, now. Oliver and Coulson might be having better luck, or at least they're better at blocking out the noise. Coulson's scanning every page meticulously, and it's the most robotic he's ever seemed, thanks only in part to the wires running from his collar and into the computer behind him. 

Oliver, at least, is looking human and bored.

The reprieve doesn't come until late in the afternoon. The history lesson gets shut off. Daryl doesn't even get the chance to appreciate it though, because when he glances up towards the front, he sees Fury putting a cell phone up to his ear. Same as Clint had done, every day. Only Fury manages to raise Hill, no problem. 

It ain't like he'd honestly sit here wishing Fury would have to go through a thousand failed attempts first, but it's pissing him off, how easily Fury does it. How it's making him think about Clint again. 

Oliver's watching, scowling slightly as he listens, like maybe he's thinking along the same lines. Coulson, on the other hand, doesn't even glance up from his reading, and of course he wouldn't. He hadn't been there, when Clint had been trying his ass off. Hadn't seen it. And even if he had, the man's a robot. Maybe it's just not part of his prime directive, or whatever it's supposed to be called. 

Apparently, on this end anyway, making phone calls was still something they could take for granted. Never mind that they'd left one of their own hanging in the wind for weeks. 

"How's it looking over there?" Fury asks, and then Hill's talking, only Daryl can't make it out. "Yes... good. The roads are starting to get dicey, but we made good time yesterday. Should reach Cheyenne tomorrow sometime."

"Tell her there's a storm heading their way," Coulson says, glancing up. Like he just _knows_ these things. They'd skirted the edge of something themselves, this morning, and it had been moving east, but Daryl hadn't given it any thought.

"Coulson says you should all prepare for rain. Uh-huh." He turns around, has to swivel more than most people might to look at Coulson. "How soon?"

"Three hours, maybe four. Could get bad."

"Three hours," Fury says into the phone, and, replying to whatever Hill's telling him, his voice gets sharp. "Well, it's up to them if they want to be running around in the rain and mud, ain't no skin off of my ass... Right. Well, get on that, and we'll check in again at eighteen hundred." 

He hangs up the phone, turns around to face them. 

"Seems there's a contingent of kids hell bent on running around outside the fence back at the prison. Looks like they're out trying to put whatever skills they think they have to some sort of use."

Shit. If it goes bad... No. Training them up hadn't been a mistake. Thinking otherwise might damn them. "Lucky them," Daryl mutters instead to Oliver, who widens his eyes and nods back seriously before tossing his notebook on the table. 

Thing is, though, he knows those woods, knows the terrain, and how wet leaves on mud can royally fuck up your day if you're not careful. He's picturing Carl and the others wandering through it. If a search party has to go out for them, he ain't gonna be there to help. He'll be sitting here, on his ass, waiting for word on the wire as intently as Clint had, once. 

"They'll be fine," Coulson says, and Daryl can't stop himself from glaring at the wires running into his collar- they're fucking _weird_ , when he stops to think about them- wondering if his calm assurance is something that's being fed to him from the machines, too. 

"At least they've got some warning," Oliver says, shrugging like he knows someone needs to keep the peace, and nobody else is stepping up.

Daryl nods. Thing is, though, they're sitting here with all these machines, inside of a tank, safe as fucking houses, and he has no idea how long Coulson's been sitting on information that, outside and a thousand miles back, might've been more useful an hour or three ago. 

But Oliver's right. They've got warning.

He's just going stir crazy, is all, sitting on his ass like this. The sooner they get to wherever they're camping for the night, the better. 

\--- 

By evening, Oliver's ready to riot, but his relief at the sensation of the Behemoth slowing to a stop is short lived. 

"Don't get too excited, just a semi," Fury warns, gesturing out the window at where the Suburban's taillights are glowing in the snow as he grabs the radio. "Carver, pull over wherever you can. Johnson? What do you say, push or pull?"

"The embankment's nothing much, but I'm not liking the odds on it flipping forward. Think if we can uncouple the trailer, we'll be able to bulldoze it."

"Anyone seeing anything?"

"Negative," Carver says. "Snow and these headlights don't mix."

"All right, hold tight," Fury replies, glancing back at the rest of them. Coulson's already got his hand on the side door, and a few seconds later, Oliver's watching him, wearing nothing but a suit jacket, approaching Suburban first, pausing by the door. The radio channel's still open, but what little Oliver can make out is faint. A moment later, Coulson's heading for the semi. 

It's strange, watching him go. The cold's no trouble for him, and he's clearly not overly concerned with any walkers he might attract. 

A moment later, when he's opening the cab door and backstepping quickly, Oliver realizes that it's not carelessness, it's strategy. Coulson pulls out a handgun, and Oliver can see the kickback, but he can't hear a thing. 

"Silencer?"

Up front, DeStefano nods. Through the windshield, they all watch Coulson disappear around the front of the semi and reappear, heading back towards the Suburban. 

"Just the one in the cab," Carver relays. "And there's something moving in the trailer, but the angle on the hitch looks good, and it's on solid ground. Shouldn't slip much if the trailer breaks are on."

"All right. I want eyes on all angles, but stay on the road." Fury stands up, grabbing his coat from the back of the seat, and looks back at Oliver and Daryl. "Either of you guys know anything about rigs?"

Oliver shakes his head, but Daryl nods. "A little," he shrugs, but he doesn't leave his crossbow when he stands. "What about you guys?"

"Johnson's liable to set the damn thing rolling back on us, given the chance, but Carver knows his shit."

Zipping his coat and putting his hood up, Oliver follows them out of the truck. It's the first time he's been outside in hours, and he stretches, trying not to be too obvious, as he waits for the others to decide what they're going to do. 

"Where'd you learn about trucks?" he asks Daryl, while they're standing around. 

"Took some classes."

"Really?" It's not that Oliver's surprised, but it might be the first time Daryl's ever talked about what he'd done for a living, before. Only maybe it's not as enlightening as it should be, because Daryl shrugs again. 

"Didn't pan out."

Before he can ask anything more, Carver's waving Daryl over to look at the hitch. Oliver tries to make himself useful by heading to the edge of the road, behind the trailer, trying to see past the edge of where it's sagging off the road. Loyola and DeStefano are knocking on the walls of the trailer, putting their ears to the side to listen for a response, but evidently, it's all clear. 

Oliver moves back to the other side of the road, then backtracks a bit, looking out over the hills to see if anything's been attracted to the noise they're all making. It's easier to see farther out, over here, with all the headlights pointed in the opposite direction, but the snow's coming down heavy and wet. 

He's concentrating hard enough that the noise of the Behemoth, roaring forward, startles him, and he spins to watch it pull right before turning left, heading straight for the marks on the side of the trailer someone's painted, a few feet behind the front wheels. 

It happens very slowly, but the trailer starts to move sideways, the back end first. It begins to rock, pauses, and then slumps over the edge of the embankment. He's half expecting it to flip over, but it doesn't. 

The cab, though, the only part of the semi that's actually blocking their way, is more dramatic when it's pushed over. The front end moves first, following the direction of the tires, and they probably don't actually need to send it sidelong into the ditch, but it goes anyway. 

There's whooping laughter, moment later, Daryl's running up to him next to him, grinning as he points his thumb over his shoulder at the Behemoth, backing up into the center of the road. The crash bars in front don't even look _bent_ , but maybe it's just the angle. 

"Damn! I have _got_ to get one of those things," he says, and sometime soon, Oliver thinks, he's going to get around to asking him what the hell he actually _did_ with himself, back before the world ended. 

But looking out past the truck, out past where the glare of four headlights are pointing, there's a walker heading towards them. Oliver looses the arrow he's had nocked since stepping out of the truck, thereby completing the only useful thing he's done all day, but it's a good reminder. 

Whatever it is anyone did before this, it's kind of irrelevant, now.


	20. Chapter 20

Hill's voice on the line is just audible enough, over the sound of the engine and the road crunching beneath them, to tell that she's frantic, and Daryl's finding his good mood vanishing before Fury's even said three words to her. 

"We're fine," he says. "Just out clearing some traffic. How're things on your end?"

Daryl tries to listen, but most of what he's taking in, he's getting from reading Fury's stance. It's not good. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Oliver's gone still as well, just barely shifting with the Behemoth's movement as DeStefano edges it past the semi. 

"All right, I'll tell them," Fury says, and it doesn't mean anything, not really. "Twelve hours. Yes. Do what you can."

If the fucker would just _turn around_ -

And then he does, his one eye fixing on him immediately and finding him frozen.

"There's good news, and bad," he says, setting down the radio. "Bad news- the storm's riled up the walkers in the woods something fierce, it's got everyone on edge and they're worried about the southeastern fence holding." Daryl nods, but he's trying not to get his hopes up. "Good news," Fury continues, "is that the Sheriff saw fit to curtail the field trip. Everyone's fine."

Thank fucking god.

Daryl nods, sitting down heavily on the bench seat, not particularly caring if it's trying to read his mind through his ass.

They drive on for another half hour or so before the Behemoth grinds to a stop. The contingent from the Suburban file in, another round of MREs are distributed and eaten, and everyone seems too exhausted for conversation; everyone knows the score anyway, thank's to the several they've spent discussing it. He and DeStefano will be splitting the watch the first half of the night, and Johnson and Fury will be taking over for the late shift. Coulson, most likely, will be up all night once he's done with whatever it is he's doing with the computers. 

There's no high ground to watch from, so he and DeStefano partner up on the first sweep, then station themselves on the north and south sides of the area. It's nearly an hour before Coulson slips out of the Behemoth to relieve them.

DeStefano nods at him, heading inside, but Coulson tells Daryl to hold up, a minute.

"Everything cool inside?"

"Everything's fine. Checked in with the prison again; they managed to get the fence shored up just fine." 

Daryl wants to grin, but winds up wincing against a wind gust instead. He shoves his right fist into his pocket, between the glove he's got stashed there and the hand warmer. "Good."

"How's it going out here?" Coulson rubs his hands together. It would be more believable if he'd been wearing a coat. It's just meant to be sympathy, then. 

"Had one out in the field when we came out here, another a little while ago. Just down there in the ditch. No big deal." 

"That's good." Coulson starts meandering towards where Daryl's pointing before looking over his shoulder. "Nice work, by the way, with the truck."

"Thanks."

Coulson's too busy looking down into the ditch to hear him. "And nice shooting, too."

"Huh?"

"Through the eye."

"Yeah." DeStefano had been crowing about it too, though it wasn't as if he hadn't had plenty of time to line up the shot. He's contemplating putting his glove back on, but aiming's already awkward enough, just wearing the left. 

Coulson snorts. 

"What?"

"Nothing. Just wondering if there's a correlation between shooting arrows and being sardonic as hell."

Daryl shrugs, trying to guess if he should point out that Clint had been the least sardonic of anyone he'd met in years. He's spared from having to decide when Coulson straightens up and looks at him. 

"Why'd you agree to come along?"

It's funny, the way he asks. As if he'd enlisted, instead of being drafted. "Way everyone was talking, if I wasn't here, Oliver and Fury would kill each other inside of a week." It's clearly a little too close to the mark, and Coulson's face falls.

"Besides." It's meant to buy him some time to salvage this, nothing more. "I ain't never really done anything good. Nothing bad, neither, really. But nothing important." 

"Well. It's a shame you weren't on our radar. You would've made a great agent, given the chance."

He wants to say thanks. What comes out instead is, "what about Oliver?"

"Too volatile," Coulson smirks. "And I say this, fully aware that we brought Bruce Banner on board." He looks back up at Daryl, the grin falling again from his face. He straightens. "You want to ask me something."

He's not wrong- there are a few things, actually- but it doesn't seem right to bring Clint up, now that they've been skirting the edges of it so well. 

"What'll happen to you? Your batteries..those arc welder things. They gonna die out?" 

Coulson arches an eyebrow, and maybe this isn't a better topic after all. "Some day."

"Before or after the world finishes ending?"

"After, most likely. Unless this actually works." Coulson replies. _And that, I suppose, is on you._ He doesn't say it out loud, but then, with all this, he doesn't really need to. 

\---

All other things being equal, the Behemoth has cots and more room, but it also has more people inside. 

But Oliver's more his people than any of the soldiers are, and shit. Daryl's doesn't want to give the impression that his apology hadn't counted for anything. He's not trying to avoid him, any more

Walking around to the rear passenger side door, he slips in as quietly as possible, which doesn't turn out to be very. Even if it weren't for the rustling in the sleeping bag, the glint of a knife being drawn out makes it obvious that he's woken Oliver anyway

"Just me," he mutters, glancing warily at the knife until Oliver pushes back his sleeping bag and raises his head to squint at him. The truck's only barely warm, but it's stultifying compared to the freezing temperatures he'd acclimated himself to outside. He'd rather the engine was off- it's making it hard to hear anything that's happening outside- but there's an arc reactor powering the engine, same as the two they've got over in the Behemoth. Keeping warm, for once, isn't a significant drain on their resources. He'll get used to it. 

"Mm." Oliver rubs a hand over his barely visible face and nods, shoving back the sleeping bag and pushing himself up on his elbows to watch Daryl fight his way out of his boots. "How's it look?"

"Just two of 'em, spaced out by about an hour." Daryl sheds his coat, too off and rolls his sleeping bag out next to Oliver's. He doesn't mention that both of the walkers had come from up the road. It's to be expected, this close to a city. "Don't worry about it. Carver and Johnson are on watch. Coulson, too. He's still out there."

Oliver sits up, eyes more closed than open, but they're focused unerringly on Daryl. The T-shirt he's wearing is all twisted around him, pulling the neckline sideways, and he tugs it loose. "You talk to him?"

That's not the real question he's asking. 

"Seems to be doing okay," Daryl replies. Now that he's down to his shirt and jeans, the chill's catching up with him. He starts the awkward process of climbing into his sleeping bag, but doesn't lie down just yet. The windows back here are starting to fog up, with the both of them in here, but he can see the glow of three flashlights to the south outside if he turns his head. "Don't really have anything to compare it to. Didn't say anything about Clint, if that's what you're asking." Not that Daryl had, either.

It _is_ becoming less horrible, though saying his name, and maybe it's getting easier to hear it; Oliver merely nods. It's too late and too cold for thinking about it, though, so he eases down onto his back and changes the subject. "Heading out at first light. Better rest up; DeStefano says they've got some shit about World War Two on deck for tomorrow."

"Wouldn't want to miss that," Oliver's sleeping bag rustles, after a minute, as he settles in again. "G'night."

"Yeah." 

\--- 

Oliver had crashed in a lot of strange places even before the island, but the last time he'd slept in the back of a truck, sleeping bag and everything, he'd been eleven, camping with his dad. The rain that had washed out the campfire was now threatening to wash the truck off the road. He'd been terrified enough that he'd vowed to never go camping again.

"We've got shelter." His dad had laughed, trying to cheer him up as he turned up the heater. "And hey. We've got enough marshmallows and soda to last for days, if it comes down to it. Only thing we need to worry about is what your mother's going to say when she sees all the mud we've tracked in here."

Oliver hadn't believed him, and he hadn't had any idea at all of just how good he had it, right then. He wouldn't know it for another fifteen years.

He's warm. The folded-down backs of the seats are stiff, but flat enough. He's got shelter, and hell, he isn't even alone back here, but he'd heard-

Someone's just shouted. 

He listens. Tries to see out through the fogged up windows. He catches the glare of a flashlight moving quickly, off towards the Behemoth, and the hint of a shadow. It's just Carver. 

Daryl's rolling over, throwing the sleeping bag back, and Oliver grabs his shoulder to stop him from moving, he needs to see-

Carver's not limping, he's _lurching_.

Daryl growls and shoves him off, slowly pushing himself up to sit, turning towards where Oliver's looking. The movement rocks the truck, just barely, but it's enough. Outside, the thing in Carver's body stops, swivels sickly, and stares unseeingly back at them. 

"Shh," Oliver says, going still himself as Daryl freezes. He forces himself to look around, see if anything's noticed it watching them. Nothing reveals itself.

"Anyone out there?"

Oliver shakes his head slowly, but he's not certain. He drags his feet out of his sleeping bag, careful and slow, but outside, the walker is heading towards them. "Think everyone else is in the truck."

He takes inventory. They've got weapons, they've got a vehicle with locked doors. Outside, there's Carver- and somewhere, there's the walker that bit him- but the lights are all out and-

Something lurches against the other side of the truck; Daryl's got a boot in one hand and his crossbow in the other. There's a loud click- the lock's disengaging. 

Coulson's opening the rear door. 

"I've got this, get inside with the others," he says, stepping back almost immediately to let Daryl climb out. His eyes are unreadable, but there's a tension in his voice that Oliver doesn't like. 

He likes the sound of Loyola's voice cutting through the darkness even less. Two words- he's bit- and Oliver can't stop from flinching at the sound of the gunshot that follows. No silencer. Coming, he thinks, from the other side of the rise.

He jumps out of the truck to follow them, nearly tripping over Daryl's boots, which are lying in the snow. Barefoot, Daryl's still got ten paces on him, already sweeping his aim out over the road. He's moving fine, for the moment, but in a minute or two, it's going to be a problem. Another two after that, and it might be a serious one.

"Go fucking inside," Oliver grinds out, shoving him towards the Behemoth.

"I'm fine."

"You're _barefoot_ ," he shouts back. "We've got this."

Coulson's heading for the top of the hill, he's already got one shot off and is aiming again by the time Oliver reaches him. 

"What are we looking-"

"I told you to go inside," is all Coulson says, before turning to aim again.

"What-" 

He looks down to see what Coulson's aiming at now. Just movement, at first, slowly shaping together in the form of another walker. The snow's slowing it down, but that only means he has time to recognize it as Johnson before he nocks and shoots. 

Coulson fires at the same exact moment, and turns back to Oliver with a scowl, gesturing towards the Behemoth. 

" _Go_." 

If Coulson hadn't been distracted, Oliver realizes as he staggers back down the hill, he would've been able to make the shot before seeing Johnson's face.

The door opens before they even get to it. Oliver climbs the stairs, stomping snow off his feet. Counting heads doesn't take as long as it should- it's just DeStefano and Daryl, who's standing there in soaking wet socks, but that's not what's important right now. May's pacing back and forth in front outside, caught with the snow in the headlights. Fury and Ward are nowhere to be seen. 

"What-"

DeStefano shakes her head, points out the window to where Fury and Ward are stepping into view, guns still raised and ready as they approach.

"Where are we at?" Fury stalks through the door. One quick glance around tells him everything he needs to know. 

May dodges around him and goes to DeStefano, sitting in the driver's seat. She puts a hand on her shoulder, but she's looking up at Coulson. The question in her eyes is obvious, as is the answer when it hits. 

"Johnson reported seeing three of them," DeStefano says, still leaning forward, looking out the window. "I haven't- he _hasn't_ -" 

Fury's still staring at Coulson, too. "God _damn_ it!"

May steps back, crosses over to Ward. Her voice is quiet. "Carver-"

"-only reported two," Ward finishes for her, turning on his heel. He's out the door again a moment later, Coulson tailing behind. Nobody turns to watch them leave. DeStefano gasps once; it sounds like she's about to start crying. Standing suddenly, she shoves past May, stalking towards the back. 

"Turn those damned headlights off," Fury mutters to May. She turns off the interior lights as well, and for a minute, everything is silent. Their eyes are adjusting, Oliver's, at least, are straining to see past the snow, but there's nothing else out there. 

DeStefano's trying to stifle her sobs in the bathroom.

When the door finally opens again, Ward still has his gun in his hand. He nods at Fury but doesn't make eye contact. "Three confirmed." Not counting the three they've just lost. 

Coulson's got the keys to the Suburban in his hands when he comes back, and shoves them into Fury's hands, glaring him down like it's something he's used to doing. "You drive. We'll follow." 

Two minutes later, they're moving again. 

\--- 

Three of the four cots are unfolded along the rear walls, but he's less concerned with claiming someone else's spot than he is with claiming a spot that nobody's coming to claim; it's just too soon. Sitting on the floor with his back against the wall is as unobtrusive as it's possible to be right now. May, Ward, and DeStefano are gathered around the table, mostly just staring at their hands. 

To his right, the bathroom door opens and he catches sight of socks hanging on the drying rack before Daryl shuts the light off. For a moment, he just stands in the doorway, looking at the others like he doesn't know what he's supposed to be doing. When the motion of the vehicle sways him slightly off balance, he follows the momentum back and sits down next to Oliver, situating his coat over his damp jeans and bare feet as he gives Oliver a once-over. 

"You good?"

Oliver's fairly certain that the two of them are the only people for miles that don't need to be asked that right now. He nods, not wanting to break the quiet further. 

It's unlikely any of the others are really going to be speaking any time soon. Silence keeps people away the same way it does walkers, and people who die as strangers take less of you with them when they go. It's already too late for him not to mourn Daryl when and if the inevitable comes; the odds are already fifty-fifty that at some point- maybe some point _soon_ \- he'll end up like Ward and May. Staring down at his own hands because meeting anyone else's eyes is too risky. 

Maybe he'll blame himself, maybe he'll just be numb. Maybe he'll be angry at himself for not asking Daryl more about the semi driving classes, or maybe he'll be thinking about this exact moment. Oliver doesn't even know what his regrets will be, yet, and it's naïve to think there's anything he can say or do to minimize them. 

He grabs the blanket anyway, tugging it free from the cot that's folded against the wall, and hands it over. Daryl pulls his mouth tight over his teeth and nods, dragging the material over his legs, flipping what's left over Oliver's. Maybe it's an afterthought, maybe there's no thought to it at all.

They sit like that for what seems like hours; the only thing that bears watching are Fury's tail lights in the windshield up ahead.


	21. Chapter 21

The roads are getting steadily worse and they're pushing it more than they probably should. The knowledge makes it hard to sleep; Daryl keeps drifting off and forgetting that these vehicles don't operate on gas. He keeps snapping awake, sure that they're about to strand themselves on the side of the road, and that he's going to discover that he'd left his boots on the side of the road a hundred miles back.

He manages to drift off around sunup; figures he's only gotten a few hours in when Oliver shakes him awake, shoving his boots in his face. 

"Fury's ready to switch out. Twenty minutes and we're moving again." 

His boots are cold- but at least someone'd seen fit to throw them in the back of the Suburban. 

Stepping outside, it feels like a reprieve. The sun's out, seems twice as bright glaring off the snow. He stretches his legs as best he can, walking out to get a better view. It's really somethin' to look at, all this snow, and what looks like mountains- the Rockies, he thinks- off at the horizon 

But for all he knows, it ain't nothin' at all. But something seems different.

"That," Ward says, coming up behind him with a grin on his face, "is one hell of a view." He continues on, following Coulson back around the front of the Behemoth. Oliver and DeStefano are standing not too far away, she's grinning against the wind. 

It's weird, he thinks, the way being out here seems to have cheered everyone up; right now, there's no signs that anyone's thinking about Johnson, Carver or Loyola. 

Could be, it's just the sunlight, but he can't help the thought that maybe they'd just set out figuring that not all of them would make it back. Maybe they're all just disposable, and they've accepted it- hell, they'd already left Clint hanging in the wind for _weeks_. Whatever's going on with them, it doesn't stop Fury from crashing out cold the moment the trucks set out again.

Could be, Daryl realizes, it's just whatever it is that makes the soldiers _soldiers_. As they push on, they come across seven spots of dead traffic they can't get around; clearing cars off the road is enough to keep everyone busy. Taking care of the geeks they find at two of the stops is just enough revenge, maybe, to keep everyone sane. 

Whatever it is, it's enough to keep his blood flowing. Adrenaline works just as well as food, sometimes, for keeping a man awake. By mid-afternoon, though, he's starting to crash again. 

He doesn't know how long he's been dozing when they pull to a stop. They've made it to a parking lot of a radio station, just outside what Coulson assures them are the Cheyenne city limits. 

"All right, people," Fury's standing in the back of the truck, his arms behind his back while DeStefano and Coulson repack some of their gear. "We need to patch into the antenna. That means securing the station, and _that _means making sure there aren't any biters within four square blocks of here. I want us patched in and ready to set up permanent defenses before the weather turns on us. Coulson, go ahead."__

__Daryl doesn't know what that means, but Coulson's going into action over the dashboard up front, and the Behemoth's racked with a series of shudders._ _

__"Distractions are deployed."_ _

__"Good," Fury nods, turning to the rest of them. "Sonic's online, scent capsules are ready to go, but remember, they're manual. You'll need to trigger them from your handhelds."_ _

__"Yes sir," Ward says, brandishing a tablet. "We're all good." As he and May start discussing other settings, Fury turns back to Daryl and Oliver._ _

__"May and Ward are on the north quadrant, Coulson and I are on the west." Oliver's looking at the map he's been given, holds it up for Daryl to see, but it doesn't mean anything to him, yet. "For now I need you two clearing out the south quadrant. We're just on the lookout for any large groups, but obviously, take care of whatever you do find." Heading over to the wall full of storage bins, he takes out some holsters- same as the one he's wearing- and four guns, already equipped with silencers. He hands two of them to Daryl- they feel unbalanced and awkward- along with a small plastic box attached to a carabiner._ _

__"You get stuck, flip the cover. The button activates the distractions. They make a hell of a lot of noise, and they smell like shit if you get too close, so only use them if you need to."_ _

__Shaking his head, Daryl follows Oliver's lead and attaches it to the back of his belt, where it won't get in the way, and grabs his crossbow from the bin by the door. Another minute or so, and Oliver's ready to go, too._ _

__"Be careful," is all Fury says, dismissing them. "Don't do anything stupid."_ _

__\---_ _

__The snow's starting to fall again, muffling their footsteps. It's almost peaceful, but that's the entire problem. There's nobody here to plow the streets, shovel the sidewalks. Nobody's tamped the snow on the sidewalks down to ice. None of the parked cars have moved up from the snowdrifts to kick dirty slush all over everything in sight._ _

__It's not the first time he's seen an abandoned town, but it is the first time he's seen one that's given him real evidence of just how _long_ it's been abandoned. There aren't any footprints in the snow. No signs of life now, yesterday, or the day before. Not even a chance. _ _

__The first part of their grid's been easy- mostly parking lots, empty and easy to clear. They'd been able to see Coulson and Fury heading into the grocery store two blocks up, but that had been a while ago. Now, Daryl's the only sign of life out here, ten feet away, crossbow up and ready._ _

__It's a good thing, too. Until his hands get too cold, Oliver's bow is still his best option, even with the silencers. The layers he's got on are bulky, though, and he has to mind the holster on his right hip if he doesn't want to get snagged._ _

__It won't matter for another block or so. Across the intersection are five buildings, huddled together- the tail end of a more densely packed neighborhood. Beyond those to the south, according to the map, is the train yard. Attracting attention in one building will mean attracting attention in all of them, and they're going to have to move to the sidewalks for the approach. They're not going to have any cover at all, crossing the intersection, if things go wrong._ _

__For now, though, while the light's still good and they haven't alerted anything's attention, they're still heading down the center of the street, stopping in front of a dull gray building advertising "SIGNS" in faded blue paint._ _

__Daryl pulls right; Oliver swings back out to widen their stance on the approach, covering the east side of the shop. Daryl's up at the window, underneath the awning and peering in; after a moment he shakes his head. The front door's locked._ _

__There's a metal door on the side of the building; it doesn't look like anyone's tried it since the snow's started falling, but that might not mean anything. Heading back around, Oliver signals for Daryl to keep watch from the corner. It doesn't budge._ _

__The back of the building's got a loading dock, and Daryl decides to come with him rather than keep en eye on the still empty main drag. Against his better judgement, Oliver puts his ear up to the metal garage door and taps on it, gently. They just need to know if anything's inside. They don't need to wake up the neighbors across the street._ _

__Daryl's only two, three feet away as they lean against the door, listening, and Oliver doesn't have anything else to look at right now. Daryl, for his part, doesn't seem to notice that his hair's getting caught up in his beard, and he's squinting at the seam running between the panels on the door._ _

__He squints a lot, for someone who's as good as a shot as he is. It's weird._ _

__There's no sound from inside. Nothing out here but the shifting of snow under his feet as he adjusts his stance, raps again._ _

__Another minute, and Daryl's smirking, stepping away, but they're not done yet._ _

__They've still got two more sides of this building to cover, and pretty soon, they'll be losing daylight._ _

__\---_ _

__It's quiet out here, kind of peaceful, and Daryl keeps catchin' himself thinking that if he squints just right, it'll all sort itself out into trees and rocks enough that he'll be able to fool himself into thinking they're just out here hunting._ _

__Which, he guesses, they are._ _

__It's been easy going, so far, but they've cleared the low-potential areas already. The sign company and the cell phone store had both been locked up tight, but now they've got a bar, a drug store, another parking lot, and a gift shop with what looks like apartments on the second floor. There are two more apartment buildings across the alley. There's another alley running along behind it all, and beyond that should be the railroad tracks. There are more buildings on the next block north- Coulson and Fury will be clearing those, but any geeks that get riled up probably won't be keeping to search grids._ _

__The bar's door has probably been standing open for weeks; there's snow piled up in the doorway. Whoever'd been here last, judging by the upended tables and chairs strewn everywhere, had either had themselves a very good time, or a very bad one. There's nothing left on the shelves behind the bar that hasn't been empty or broken._ _

__"Well _that's_ a drag," Oliver smirks, looking down at the mess of shattered glass as he passes and gesturing ahead at the door to the back. "Think they've got anything stocked in back?"_ _

__"Might as well go check it out," Daryl shrugs, sidestepping another broken bottle. His eye catches on a glass sitting on the counter as he passes; there's a twenty sitting underneath it. A good tip, or a last grand gesture. Either way, it's definitely pathetic._ _

__He freezes at the sound of kicked glass striking the aluminum floor vent, startlingly loud. Oliver's got his bow up and ready, rubbing his fingers together to get the circulation going. Stepping back from the wall to give himself room, he raises his crossbow._ _

__Oliver swings his bow down to listen at the door, shaking his head._ _

__He raps, once. And again._ _

__It's exactly the sound Daryl's been expecting since they got here._ _

__"Just one, I think."_ _

__Which may be true, but it's heard him, and it's moving around more, definitely interested. Daryl glances up to check the hinges. It opens inward, at least, away from them._ _

__"Is it locked?"_ _

__Oliver tries the handle, slowly. It turns. Another moment, and he's glancing over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. "You ready?"_ _


	22. Chapter 22

So far, there's been one walker in the bar, and two in the pharmacy, though one of those had been too far gone to be any threat whatsoever. Lying in the doorway in the broken glass next to the back door, it had torn itself in two when it's clothes, frozen to the ground, had been stronger than its own flesh. The fibrous tearing sound had nearly sent Oliver to retching, but shoving an arrow through it's skull hadn't taken much effort. 

It's near dark when they step outside again, and the fresh air is great until they hear the explosion. It comes from several blocks to the the west, out past where any of them are supposed to be searching. There's not even a question- it has to be one of Coulson's distractions being deployed.

"Shit," Daryl mutters, trying to look down the alley like he's forgetting that there's nothing to see. 

Still, they should keep going. Oliver nods towards the door next to the pharmacy; it leads upstairs to the apartments. Daryl scowls back at him, clearly unenthusiastic, so Oliver shrugs. Their orders haven't changed. 

"We should get off the street, at least." Stepping out into the street and edging towards the corner, he glances up at the second floor. There's a fire escape in the alley, two doors have access. If anything else, at least they'll have a good vantage point to pick anything off that starts moving out onto the streets.

Daryl nods, gestures at the door. It's closed, hasn't obviously been pried open, but it's not locked, either; there's only slight resistance when Oliver pushes it open. The stairs leading up to the second floor are dark and creaking, but there's enough light coming in from the windows that the only thing they have to worry about is the noise they're making going up. 

Oliver reaches the landing first, holding his hand out for Daryl to stop as he tries to listen. Of the two doors, only the one to apartment B is standing open. Oliver heads in first. 

The apartment's worn, but tidy, and it's clear that it hasn't been used in a long time. Daryl follows him inside, starts clearing from the left, so Oliver goes right, through the living room, back into the kitchen. Daryl's already in the hallway to the bedroom, and stops, suddenly, when Oliver joins him.

"Hold up," he says, nodding at the picture on the wall. It's one of those frames that holds multiple photos, mostly of children and parents. Christmas morning, a cabin in summer, everyone smiling. The pictures are old. 

The noise, though, the banging, it's coming from the other side of the wall. 

"Next apartment over?"

Oliver nods, but he doesn't need to. The clawing and pounding in apartment A is answer enough.

\--- 

The geek in apartment A is making enough noise that there's no real point in trying to move silently, but it's habit, now. Oliver stops several feet short of the door and starts rapping on the wall, and Daryl can hear the geek inside scrabbling to chase after it. It gives him enough time to ease the unlocked door open, just enough that the bolt isn't catching. 

He takes a breath. Gets his bow ready to draw. Listening for anything that might be immediately on the other side, he exhales. 

He puts his shoulder into it and raises to aim all at once. There's more light in here than there'd been in the hall- not by much, but it's enough. He's aiming before the geek's even registered his presence, and he's taken it down before it's taken three steps. 

It slumps to the floor, but there's another noise by the window. He crouches down and out of the way to reload and let Oliver pass, the bottom of his bow swinging up past Daryl's face. He's got another bolt ready to go before he stands, and Oliver's already moving down towards the bedroom. All Daryl hears from where he's standing is the bowstring snapping, and then a dull, dragging thud. 

The bathroom is clear, but there's the noise again. Stepping into the kitchen, he nearly trips on the chair that's been knocked over, feeling the wind on his face. It's coming from outside. 

From back in the living room, he hears Oliver's voice. "Got anything?"

He nods. The door leading out onto the fire escape's been busted open, all twisted aluminum and shattered glass, and there's noise, down in the alley.

\---

"Got three geeks down here," Daryl says quietly, stepping carefully through the door and over the debris out onto the fire escape. First one foot, then the other, bringing his crossbow through carefully to avoid the bent door frame.

The metal creaks a little as he aims, but it holds, and Oliver lets out the breath he's holding. 

And watches, frozen, as it shifts, grating against the brick. Daryl's already shifting to get back inside, but he moves too fast, maybe, shakes something loose, and all Oliver can see is Daryl's wincing face, falling too quickly out of sight. 

Oliver dashes forward, holding his bow clear of the kitchen table. A loud _bang_ \- he's knocked one of the chairs against a cabinet- has him aiming at nothing. 

Recovering himself, he crosses to the door, forces himself to slow down so as not to slip on the snow. With one hand gripping the frame, he leans out through the door, trying to see. The sun's gone down and the alley's narrow, he just has the reflection off the snow to go off. It's just enough that he can catch movement, mostly blocked by the still-settling fire escape and disappearing behind the back of the building. 

If it's not Daryl, it's _chasing_ Daryl.

There's no time to take the stairs; the only reason he sees the crumpled fire escape at all is that it's in his periphery as he steps out onto the very edge of the building. There's a dumpster on the other side of the alley, just past the twisted metal, and he hopes like hell that the lid will give enough that he won't break anything when he lands. Tossing his bow down to the ground, he jumps. 

He comes down rougher then he'd like, sliding off the angled lid before landing too suddenly, and he has to catch himself on the rim to keep himself upright. Something skitters inside the bin as he disentangles his pant leg from a rusted piece of railing that he'd come too damned close to hitting, but he's on his feet. 

He nearly slips, trying to run and grab his bow at the same time. 

There's no sign of Daryl, here, and no room to use the bow, so he shoulders it and grabs the knife from his belt. Crouching low, he heads back around into the back alley. It's a dead end; just the wall blocking off the train yard, but there's a van parked here. If he's very lucky, Daryl's got at least that for cover.

"Daryl?"

The only response he gets is a groan off to his left, too damned close and stinking- there's a doorway, there, he'd been too focused on the van- and he strikes the moment the hands touch his shoulder, and wrenches the knife back out. 

The walker's gone down, but he doesn't honestly know if he's killed it.

Eyes darting constantly to the shadows, he finds nothing as he approaches the van. The doors are all closed. Crouching down, there's too much snow to see anything between the tires, so he circles around, trying to peer in the windows. The front seats, at least, are empty. It's not until he's circled to the other side that he realizes the van's been blocking an opening in the wall.

If it's actually meant for driving though, there's too much snow to tell, but it opens up onto the embankment for the train tracks. There's something huge in front of him- he hadn't actually been expecting to see a _train_ , parked here- but it's the walkers that need his attention. Two of them are already turning towards him; the third's continuing on up ahead, going around the last car, disappearing.

Which isn't good. The noise he's been making should've attracted its attention, which means it's got a quarry already. 

From the sounds that erupt from the street side of the dumpsters, it's already found it. 

He dispatches the two walkers, barely seeing them, but there's something slippery on the ground that's making him slip. It could be rust, there in the slush, or it could be blood- there are too many muddy footprints to tell. There's a gap between the last two train cars, wide enough to climb through, but on the other side, there's nothing to see. 

Not even a dead walker. There's just a street parallel to the tracks, lined with parked cars and twitching movements coming from all corners, which he might just be imagining. Without dropping the knife just yet, he pulls his bow off of his back.

"Daryl?"

He calls out, hoping like hell that it's not pointless, that the fact he hasn't _found_ him yet doesn't _mean_ anything- but there's no response. Spotting a scuffed track in the snow, he follows it across the tracks towards the street. He's nearly a block outside of their assigned zone, and he spins around to check behind him. 

All he can see is the train; there's still no sign of Daryl. 

There is, however, a noise coming from behind the fence up ahead, heavy and grating. Crouching down behind a nearby embankment, he readies his bow again. Peers around the side to catch sight of splayed legs and dragging feet. The walker's caught on something metal, but whatever it is, it's not heavy enough to stop it. 

Breathing heavily, in and out, he aims. He fires the second he has a clean shot, and rushes forward with the knife, but there's no need; it's down. The rusted sheet of metal's probably been sawing through its ankle for weeks. Yanking the arrow out of its head, he tries to ignore the sound. It's getting in the way of the things he actually _needs_ to hear. 

It's probably only been three minutes, maybe four since he's jumped, and Daryl's nowhere to be seen.

Vanished. 

_Gone_.

He knows he's breathing faster than he should be right now; panicking won't solve anything. Exhaling heavily, he turns again to make sure that nothing's in his immediate perimeter, and prepares to break the cardinal rule of being in a city. 

Reaching for the box on his belt isn't an option, he realizes. He'll just attract too much of the wrong attention, might even send walkers into someone else's path. Inhaling, he opens his mouth to _shout_ instead. 

And that's when he catches sight of a profile, and he can't breathe any more. Not when it's moving like _that_.

It's Daryl, only he's moving too slow- he's _staggering_ \- and he still hasn't said a word.


	23. Chapter 23

"Don't shoot," Daryl says, realizing dizzily that Oliver's aiming at him. "Just me."

" _Jesus_." Oliver's running forward, closing the gap between them, sliding to a stop in the snow and nearly crashing into him. "You all right? I thought you-"

"M'fine." He's dizzy, and still feels like he's about to puke, but at least the adrenaline hasn't worn off enough that anything's hurting too bad. 

There are hands on either side of his face, tugging back through his hair. Oliver presses carefully, searching his skull for injury, only easing up slightly when Daryl winces. Not wanting to know if his fingers come back bloody, Daryl rocks his head forward. 

He's just not up to looking at him and explaining that he'd lost her all over again. 

Sophia'd been gone for months. He _knows_ that, now that he's had a minute. But she'd been _right fuckin' there_.

He's trying to catch his breath, trying to will his stomach into settling, and doesn't even realize that he's got his forehead pressed against Oliver's shoulder until the air comes back too warm. Oliver's hands have settled around his back, one sliding back up to his neck, hanging on tight enough that Daryl needs to ask. 

"You okay?"

He feels him nod, hears his muffled response, but Oliver doesn't seem intent on moving. And maybe he's just waiting for Daryl to move first, so that's what he's getting ready to do. He's shifting his weight to pull back when it occurs to him that maybe, for the moment anyway, it's okay to hug him back. 

He's not good at it. It's never been his thing and it's got to be the concussion, or something, that's even allowing it. Means to make it short, but once he manages to bring his arms up and around, he realizes it's easier than it should be. 

His crossbow's not in his hands. Maybe it's still back by that fucking stack of railroad ties. He'd almost broken his neck when the pile'd shifted underneath him. 

And what the fuck, he shouldn't have been out that far in the first place. He'd managed to land okay, he thinks, back down in the alley. The railing he'd managed to grab on the way down had held, he thinks, but the impact had sent him tumbling over the side. He'd gotten up, nothing had seemed broken, and he'd looked down the alley. 

Sophia'd just been standing there, frozen like he'd scared her, and then she'd taken off. And he'd run after her, chasing her back down the alley and all they across the yard like a total fucking idiot.

He shakes his head, not sure how to explain it. "Swear to god, I thought I saw-"

"Hmm?" Oliver shifts, but doesn't move. 

"Fucking ghost. I dunno. This kid. Carol's daughter." Now that it's out, he's wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. He sounds like he's losing his shit.

Oliver just nods. "We should go," he mutters, after a minute, and when Daryl looks up over his shoulder, he's not even surprised to see a few walkers heading their way. They're blurry, which is bad enough, but he'd _really_ like his bow back. Not that he'd be able to hit the broad side of a barn- not that he's even up to be _thinkin'_ about barns, right the fuck now.

He squeezes once, experimentally, and nods as he loosens his grip, and Oliver takes a breath, pulling back. He's smirking, suddenly, and Daryl's just about starting to wonder about the expression on his face when Oliver leans in. 

There's stubble on his cheek, right next to his eye, and the near-press of a mouth that's gone an instant later. 

"Next time," Oliver steps back, meeting his eyes before turning to ready his bow, "check before you step." Maybe it's just the hit to the head, but his expression's a lot heavier than his tone.

It's almost a relief to have the walkers to focus on, because thinking too long on what just happened- fuck, he can't even tell if it was a kiss- just ain't something Daryl can manage right now.


	24. Chapter 24

It's dark by the time Oliver's taken care of the last of the walkers in the yard, but at least Daryl's still sitting in the open train car door where he's left him when he swings back to check. 

"You find it?"

Daryl raises his head to look at him, and the confusion's apparent immediately. "Find what?"

"Your crossbow?" He manages to bite back something sarcastic, just barely, but the damned thing is the only reason they're not already _back_ yet.

"Uh... no." Daryl frowns down at his hands in frustration, then, decidedly, looks over his shoulder. "Shit."

"You doin' okay?"

"I'm fine," Daryl's balance still must still be off, judging by the white-knuckled grip he's got on the bed of the car as he finds his footing

Oliver climbs up past where he'd been sitting and pokes around a bit. He'd already checked out the pile of railroad ties- they hadn't been there, either, and they'll keep an eye out as they retrace their steps back to the alley, but it's not looking good. 

"I'm not seeing it, either," he says, jumping back onto the ground. "Sorry."

Daryl just nods, eyes closed, brow furrowed as he curses to himself. Oliver's about to ask if he's okay again, but honestly, doesn't need to. 

"Okay, let's head back. You good to walk?"

Daryl nods, grabbing one of the guns out of his holster and managing not to fumble it. The odds that he'd be able to hit any sort of target right now aren't great, but Oliver's shot his way out of far worse than this before. Covering Daryl's position as they move allows him to easily clear any line of fire Daryl might suddenly choose. It does mean that he finds himself serving as an occasional crutch, but better that than an accidental target, and besides. Oliver's not to keen on letting Daryl get more than an arm's length away. Not anytime soon.

 

\--- 

This fucking sucks. Rubbing at his eyes don't make things less blurry, and the ground keeps swaying underneath his feet. His brain's throbbing against his skull and he kind of feels like puking. 

And his bow's gone. It ain't the worst thing that could've happened- hell, Oliver's keeping up a litany of the way things could be worse as they head back, as if it's gonna _fix_ everything. By the time they're back in the alley, he's got half a mind to clock him one, just for making all that noise. 

Which wouldn't exactly be neighborly of him, given the-

To be honest, he doesn't really know if it happened, the kiss. Could've been anything, or nothing at all Shit, in the movies, rich people are kissin' each other on the cheek all the time, just to say hi. Might just be how he was raised, or something.

It is odd, though, that the habit's taken months to resurface.

But now ain't the time to be wonderin' about it. There's another half dozen walkers out in the street. He shoots at three of them and spends five bullets doin' it, and afterwards, Oliver still has to finish the one Daryl'd missed.

It's dark enough that he doesn't even recognize the alley until they're edging past the mangled remains of the fire escape. He's just about to start aiming at the bodies heading their way from out on the street- he thinks there are four of them, it could just be three- when Oliver nudges him.

"It's cool. Looks like everyone made it."

Oliver's got a hand on his left shoulder, and Ward's flanking his right a moment later as the others spread out. He's practically being dragged back to the Behemoth. 

"What the hell happened to you guys?" Ward asks, and it's just as well he doesn't really seem to be expectin' an answer, though, 'cause he doesn't have a fucking clue. 

\--- 

Fury's standing in front of the Behemoth, looking up at the roof when they arrive. Daryl doesn't even realize that there's no need to point it out. 

"The hell're those?"

Oliver's seeing them too- small, metallic devices, taking off and spreading out. Some are disappearing already.

"Drones?" Oliver asks Fury, who turns to nod at them. 

"We'll get an update every five minutes, see what's coming our way."

"You couldn't have launched them before we went out?" The glare Daryl gives Fury is withering, and _yeah_ , Oliver thinks. He's kind of got a point. 

"Wouldn't have done any good before we stirred up the pot," Fury replies, turning to look at him. "And now that we have..."

Oliver nods- it _does_ make sense- but Daryl's still scowling. 

"How many of those you got?"

"Five in the air. Should last a few months, but we've got a few in reserve, if it comes down to it."

Daryl looks like he's going to argue- Oliver's not sure about what, honestly- but instead he he just winces, shaking his head, and goes inside; the door falls shut behind him. 

\--- 

"So, just so I have it clear, the fire escape collapsed, with him _on_ it, and he thought it would be a good time to run off and wander off the grid." 

Resisting the urge to rub his neck or look away, Oliver leans against the table and nods. 

"Head injuries'll do that, Sir."

"They do at that." Fury sighs, turning to May, who's kneeling on the bunk next to Daryl. "How's it looking?"

"About what you'd expect. He's definitely got a concussion," she tosses her hair out of the way to glance up at him, and touches Daryl's hand from where it's gripping his knee, prompting him to take hold of the ice-pack she's prodding against the back of his head. It forces him to open his eyes and try to focus. At least now, his pupils are the same size. 

"Did you lose consciousness?" May asks, once his expression settles into something less nauseas. 

Daryl shrugs, leans forward until he's backlit by the lamp overhead. Oliver can't make out his expression. "Dunno."

"If he did, it was only for a few seconds at most." It's the only vaguely thing Oliver's had to say since they've gotten back. "He managed to clear a lot of ground fairly quickly, and he'd vanished by the time I'd made it down there."

He hopes they don't ask what means he used to _get_ down there. In retrospect, jumping from the second floor and hoping to clear a hell of a lot of rusted metal on the way down hadn't been the best idea he'd ever had. But Fury only looks over at Coulson and nods. 

"Okay. We'll reassess tomorrow, and change our plans if need be. We've made good time so far. Another day or two won't matter much."

"Just let me sleep," Daryl mutters. "I'll be fine."

"Not fine enough that we're willing to put anyone's life in your hands right now," Coulson points out. "No offense."

"In the meantime?" Oliver starts gathering the rags that May'd used, trying to clean Daryl's head up. The cut on the back of his head hadn't been deep, but a surprising amount of blood had shown up on the rags May had used when she'd been trying to see what was going on. 

"Apart from the obvious, today went well. We've got our foothold, and we're ready to set up relay operations in the morning. Now, whether the away team heads out tomorrow or another day or so afterwards remains to be seen, but in the meantime. Daryl, you rest up. Oliver, stay with him. Everyone else, there's still work to do, and before anyone asks, no, I haven't forgotten the deal. Now, the sooner it's ready, the sooner we eat. Understood?

Oliver doesn't think he's seen these people move with such purpose since he'd met them. Ward and DeStefano are already out the door, but Coulson's hanging back. 

"You know what to look out for?" he asks, and doesn't blink when Oliver smirks back at him. "All right then. May?" 

"Coming," she mutters, studying Daryl again before standing. She hands Oliver a packet of meds as she passes. Anti-nausea. "Sooner rather than later, I'm guessing. Get him some water, keep him talking for a bit but let him rest." She turns back before she leaves. "Daryl?"

"Yeah?"

"We're going to hold out on the heavy painkillers until we know you can keep them down. Think you'll be okay to eat in an hour or so?"

Another shrug. "Worth a shot."

"Good," she says, turning to leave. "We'll let you know when the food's ready."

"Can't wait." 

"Damn right you can't," Coulson says, following her out the door. "It's taco night."

\--- 

"Taco night?"

"Guess it's a big deal." Oliver shrugs, pulling the chair forward and sitting on it backwards, before leaning down to grab the water bottle Daryl'd left on the floor. 

"Guess so." 

"Here." Oliver's handing him a couple of pills. "Take these, drink some of this. We'll give it a few minutes and then you can sleep."

He downs the pills, takes a pull from the bottle Oliver's holding out. Even though his stomach's doin' better than it had been a while ago, he's pretty sure lying down right away will just bring everything back up again. 

In the meantime, he's realizing that he hasn't built up enough momentum to follow the action with anything else. He's just waiting, now, sitting here, with Oliver watching him from two feet away. 

"This sucks," he says, mostly because everyone'd spent the first ten minutes in here trying to make sure he could form sentences, and he doesn't want Oliver thinking he's backsliding. 

"I bet," Oliver grimaces. "Could've been worse, right?"

_Could've been better,_ Daryl shrugs. "Still lost my bow." 

Oliver nods, eventually glancing vaguely towards the door. "I could go back and-"

"Nah, man." He's careful to only shake his head slowly. "I ain't in no shape to be chasing after your ass when the walkers come after you."

Oliver snorts, rolling his eyes. "Speaking about chasing after people... I gotta ask. D'you remember talking about Sophia?" 

Daryl'd forgotten already, that he'd told him, and he hadn't expected it to come back up. But the question's just hanging there like an accusation, and even so, he _still_ has to think back for a second. 

"Yeah. It was weird. Swear to god, I saw her plain as day." He risks another drink of water- he's not thirsty, but it gives him a few seconds to figure out what he's saying. "I mean, I think I kinda knew I was just seein' shit that wasn't there, but..." And hell, if Oliver's bringing it up, he's probably going to ask anyway. Might as well head him off at the pass. "She was Carol's daughter. Went missing. We spent days looking for her, but could only stick around the same area for so long. After a while, we had to move on." 

Now that it's out, he's realizing that honestly, there ain't much to say, and even less that he wants to think about. "We did run into her later, though, only it was too late. She'd already turned."

"Shit," Oliver lets out a breath. "I didn't even know that Carol had a kid."

"She didn't... _doesn't_ like to talk about it." Daryl snorts, manages a glare even though Oliver doesn't really deserve it, it's just that Daryl's feeling like shit. 

"Makes sense," is all Oliver says, but he's hesitating now, like he's about to ask something he knows Daryl won't want to hear. 

It doesn't mean that Daryl's got an answer, when he eventually does. "Do you know why it was her that you saw?"

He shakes his head again, wonders if it's too early to lie down. He doesn't feel like trying to figure it out, doesn't much feel like having Oliver staring at him like this. "No clue. Just. Random shit. I didn't even know her all that well. Carol neither, back then."

Oliver just nods- it's starting to get irritating, like he's some shrink or something- so Daryl turns it around on him. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You ever hallucinate people?" He means dead people, but what he _really_ means is _does your brain ever fuck with you, and do you like answering bullshit questions about it afterwards_ , but there's no point in clarifying. 

"Nah," Oliver says, smirking humorlessly at the wall. "Not for years, anyway."

"Huh?"

"I used to." The smirk's gone completely, already, when he looks up. "Back when I was stranded on the island. When shit got bad- really bad, I'd..." He shakes his head, like he doesn't know where to go. "Usually it was my sister, sometimes it was my father. It eventually stopped, at least when I was awake." Leaning back, he shrugs. "You ever see anyone else?"

"Nah," Daryl says, only it's a lie, now that he's thinking about it, and Oliver's watching him realize it. "Well. Sorta."

"Who?"

This is crazy, them talking about hallucinating people like this, and part of him wants to pull back, lie down and just drop it, already. But Oliver'll still be sitting here, and as long as they're talking about this, he's not thinking about a kiss that might not have happened at all.

"My brother." It's fucked up, admitting it, talking about Merle at all. He's pretty sure he's only doing so because Oliver had mentioned his sister first. "It's kinda funny. I was out looking for Sophia at the time."

"What happened?"

"Got thrown off a horse, fell down a ravine, got stuck with one of my own arrows and had to climb and head back on foot." Oliver's eyes go wide, and for a second it looks like he's about to start laughing, but Daryl ain't sure. 

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Merle. My brother, " he amends, suddenly unsure if he's ever even mentioned him to Oliver before, "he was shouting at me, tellin' me I was an idiot for lyin' there in the mud waitin' to die." It's close enough. Truth is, he's getting tired, and there's wide swaths of that afternoon he's never been able to remember anyway, and what he does remember is pretty scattered. 

"So what happened?"

Daryl drags his feet up off the floor and lies down on his back. The bars of the bunk above sort themselves out into straight lines after only a few seconds. "I got the hell back to the camp. Didn't die."

And this time, at least, when he stops talking, Oliver lets him. 

\--- 

Daryl's only been asleep for an hour or so, though he'd been pretending, Oliver figures, for a good while before that. His breathing hadn't evened out until Oliver'd started stripping and cleaning the guns they'd left scattered on the table. 

"Soup's still on" DeStefano says, quietly, when she steps up through the door. "Saved you guys some, but you'll probably want at it before the guys get any ideas."

Daryl wakes up quickly enough when Oliver shakes his shoulder, but it's obvious he's regretting sitting up so quickly. 

"You doin' okay?"

"Fuckin' peachy," Daryl grumbles, batting his hand away. His eyes are shadowed and the scowl on his face is set deep enough that he looks about ten years older than he'd looked this morning. He frowns as he stretches, catching sight of the reassembled guns Oliver has yet to put away. "How long was I out?"

"A while. But there's food, if you're interested. I don't know about you, but I'm starving." He steps back, gives him room to move. "Let's go."

Daryl's not impressed, but he's not unconvinced, either. "Should've just gone already, then," he grumbles, but he's swinging his legs off the bunk, getting ready to stand.

The door opens behind him, unleashing another cold rush of air; Coulson's joining DeStefano by the driver's seat, fiddling with something on the dashboard. He doesn't look worried, so Oliver doesn't ask. 

Daryl manages to get up just fine, though he's obviously still testing his balance as he stands, so Oliver rethinks just tossing his coat at him and just holds it open instead. Daryl glances at him in confusion, but he doesn't fight him on this, just slides his left arm, and then his right, into the sleeves. 

And then he grins over his shoulder at him.

It's a throwaway gesture, gone by the time Daryl's getting the zipper connected. But now Oliver's standing here in the middle of the Behemoth, the happiest he's been in weeks. 

It's stupid. 

It doesn't last, either, once he notices it; he starts picking it apart as they step out of the truck and start heading for the station. 

Daryl had just been being polite, because Oliver had helped him with his coat. He hadn't meant anything by it- probably hadn't even noticed. It's not like Oliver had crossed any lines, there. 

The thing is, there's that entire _other_ set of lines Oliver _had _crossed, and they've been tunneling through the back of his head since the train yard.__

__He'd kissed him._ _

__And yes, it had mostly been about his own relief, that crashing rush of gut-shot fear suddenly abating. But Daryl hadn't hauled off on him. Of course, he probably hadn't even noticed- he'd barely been _conscious_ , at the time. And no, he hadn't pushed Oliver away. He'd just needed him within reach to keep himself upright. _ _

__If Daryl had been more aware, it might've been enough to cause a repeat of the last few weeks back a the prison. If this mission hadn't come up, they'd probably _still_ be avoiding each other, all because Oliver doesn't know when to just back the hell _off_ , sometimes. _ _

__So Daryl smiling at him doesn't mean a damned thing. But it's still got him trying to read into the fact that Daryl's shoulder bumps his- twice- as they walk the ten yards to the station._ _

__They're just on the same trajectory, and Daryl's concussed._ _

__But somehow, it's Oliver who's off kilter._ _


	25. Chapter 25

If there's one thing that Oliver's learned in three days, it's that Daryl doesn't like people fussing over him any more than Oliver does. The other is that if karma's a thing, it's probably come calling. 

Standing outside a slammed-shut bathroom door, listening to Daryl retch because he'd decided he didn't need the anti-nausea meds. Or trailing after him- from a distance, because it's not even worth another argument- when he decides that three in the morning is a good time to go search for his crossbow. Even just the vehemence Daryl manages to muster whenever he tells Oliver to _fuck off_ \- if Diggs could see him now, he'd be _laughing his ass off_.

 _Everything's_ been setting Daryl off, and most of his complaints, Oliver understands. Not the grumbling about the unending cycling of drone footage, which is weird, but the cabin fever and the rest of it, he gets. The delay itself is bad enough. They are burning through supplies- there's no such thing as a real surplus, these days, especially when that surplus is due to three people dying this week. And the weather _isn't_ getting any better. Winter's setting in and the going's only going to get worse. 

Oliver does what he can to prepare for it- goes scouting with May and manages to find a plow attachment in town. Ward shows him how to get the tire chains on and makes him practice it three times. He and Coulson pack, rearrange and re-pack the truck half a dozen times. 

On day four, May finally gives them the all clear. 

\--- 

Sticking to the highways heading west out of Cheyenne, they actually make _astoundingly_ good time. The weather's still hovering around freezing, but there hasn't been any need, yet, to lower the angled shovel on the front of the truck, and the roads aren't as mountainous as they could be. There's no need, yet, for the snow tires. 

As fortunate as he knows they are- they could be _walking_ , trying to hunt and trap on the fly- he's flipped through the book Daryl'd dug up from somewhere on winter survival, and it doesn't look good. 

After three hundred or so miles, they finally make a pit stop and switch drivers- more out of the threat of complete boredom than anything else. While Oliver and Daryl get out to stretch their legs, Coulson moves to the back seat, but he's got Fury on the radio almost immediately. 

Oliver doesn't hear what they're talking about, letting the wind scrape at him for a few minutes, until he realizes that his hair's a tangled mess enough as it is, and parts of it are actually uncomfortably matted. Just as he's trying to decide whether scrounging in back for a shoelace or a rubber band or something is a better option than just going at it with a knife, he sees Daryl, who'd walked further out, starting back.

Climbing into the driver's seat, Oliver hears DeStefano on the line. From the way her voice cuts in and out every so often, it sounds like she's switching stations. 

"-said not to worry" she's telling Coulson, as Oliver settles in behind the wheel. Readjusting the side mirror, he realizes that Daryl's vanished.

Half a second later, he reappears. The snow's making it hard to tell where the dips in the road are, and the angle had been wrong anyway, but the adrenaline spikes all the same. 

"There's something going around," DeStefano is saying. "A lot of people are sick. Think it's just a cold, but they've got a quarantine established just in case."

Coulson nods. "Is there any herd activity in the area?"

Static, and then, "A few days west of there, yeah." DeStefano breaks off again; another burst of static and then she's back. It sounds like she's laughing. "Briggs says a few of them must've gone through a clothesline or something, 'cause three of them are tied together. Says it looks like one of them's walking the others down to a zombie dog park." She snorts. "Let's hear it for must-see TV, yeah?"

The door opens and Daryl climbs in; he only barely manages to stop the door from slamming shut when he notices Coulson holding up the radio mouthpiece. 

"I'm sure Fury will be glad to know the drones are appreciated," Coulson smirks, glancing at Daryl who, as expected, rolls his eyes at the mention of drones as he settles back into his seat. 

Oliver waits until after Coulson's signed off, and they're on the road again, to ask him. 

"What's with you and the drones, anyway?"

Daryl shrugs, unzipping his coat now that he's warming up, and for a moment, it doesn't seem like he's going to answer at all. "Four of them just to keep an eye out for four trained agents and a radio station. Didn't exactly see 'em lighting up the skies over Georgia, you know? Prison's got ten times the people, and kids, too."

"They're up there," Coulson says, easing back against the seat to look out the window. Oliver's pretty sure he's looking at Daryl's reflection in the passenger side mirror. "Actually, those are the ones we were talking about- DeStefano was relaying the reports back from the prison." Oliver's too focused on finding the edges of the road to catch anything more than a vague nod. "They were launched when Barton made radio contact." 

"Why?"

"To ensure his safety and gather intel on your camp."

"Makes sense," Daryl mutters, bored with the topic, apparently, now that he's got no call to complain about it. It'll be another hundred miles before another word is spoken.

\--- 

The freakish weather that left snow on the ground back in Georgia in autumn is somehow managing, for the most part, to keep it accumulating too heavily in the Rockies, though the grey skies up ahead look ominous. On top of that, Coulson does almost all the driving, and doesn't need to sleep. Or pull over to let anyone _else_ sleep. 

By day three, Oliver's ready to kill him. By day four, his back's too knotted to even try. 

"We _have_ to find somewhere to crash tonight," he says, shifting to sprawl a little more in the back seat and breaking the silence of the car for the first time in hours. At least he's managed to shift some of the pressure off his lower spine. 

"The weather's not likely to get any better," Coulson replies, then glances over to find that Daryl's turned his unimpressed glare on him, too. "We're still looking at two more-"

"Days, I _know_ ," Oliver grumbles. The countdown hasn't escaped him; seeing as how they're steering clear of the freeways and any other roads that might actually have something resembling a sign, it's the only navigational aid he's had. The sun hasn't come out for more than a minute, here and there, and sitting on his ass in a car is fucking with his sense of direction. "At this rate, when we get there, it'll be three weeks before either of us are capable of actually walking _upright_ , so that ground we're gaining's just going to go to waste."

Up front, Daryl's shoulders twitch, either in amusement or agreement, and finally, Coulson relents. 

"Soon as we make it through the pass up ahead," he says, pointing at yet another mountain, "we'll start looking for a place."

\---

Daryl white-knuckles it for a while before deciding that boredom is still preferable to falling off a damn mountain, and Coulson takes over. He's just been humoring, them, anyway, when it comes to switching out drivers. He could do this entire trip on his own. Faster too, probably, without having to stop for breaks, not that they're taking many. They've been sleeping in the truck two nights going, now. Bathroom breaks have become the highlight of his day.

As far as any other breaks in the monotony, there just aren't any. Flipping through the winter survival manual he'd found on the Behemoth. Staring out the window. The scenery ain't bad, but if there are any geeks out there, they're stuck in a snowbank.

There ain't no radio stations any more, though Oliver, whenever it's his turn at the wheel, tends to switch it on every once in a while anyway. He'll fiddle around with the tuner until he gets a slightly different sounding static, and after a few minutes, he'll get bored and shut it off again. Daryl mostly just pretends that he's not paying attention, makes like he's not listening for human voices in the noise. 

'Course, there isn't much by way of conversation in here, either. Coulson tries, running down the plan again, or wondering aloud what the weather's doing. It's not exactly what Daryl would've pictured, going off what he'd heard from Clint. There are a lot less tactics and a lot more small talk. Coulson jokes more than once, and far more than is necessary, about how having a shovel on the front of the car pretty much guarantees they won't actually need to use it. 

Until they do. 

The road's narrow, probably tight in good weather, terraced between a wall and a hundred foot drop; if it weren't for the wall, they'd have almost no reference at all as they climb slowly up. The grating, scraping noise of the plow is the loudest thing any of them have heard in days and Daryl has to grit his teeth against it, will his shoulders to loosen up. He knows he's leaning away from the passenger side door and probably looks like an idiot, and for the first time, it occurs to him to worry about avalanches.

He's still got his eyes squeezed shut when the truck levels out again, swings inland. From the back comes an exhalation that turns into laughter- Oliver's smiling, eyebrows as high as they can go, and-

Shit. They didn't die. Again. And for some reason, Daryl can't stop laughing. It's Oliver's reaction, though, that's a little insane.

"Holy shit," he says, leaning forward between the seats so suddenly that Daryl's a little concerned he'll go through the windshield. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"What's up?" He looks where Oliver's pointing, finds a sign that reads _Four Pines Resort: Five Star Service, Double Diamond Slopes_ , and Oliver's grabbing the shoulder of Daryl's seat so tightly the leather squeaks. 

"I can't fucking believe-" Oliver shakes his head again, looks up at the ceiling of the truck, smirking as he snorts. "Seriously?"

Daryl's about to ask when Coulson slows down, stopping several yards shy of the turnoff. "Yes."

"You said we had another two days-"

"Wait," Daryl shakes his head, trying to catch up. "We're _here_?" Glancing out through the windshield, he's a little suspicious.

Oliver snorts. "Near enough."

"I _did_ say two days." Coulson nods; it's the most amused he's been for days. "And I meant it. Two more days. Between now and then, we're sending up the drone, planning our recon, and you two are going to rest up. It's not my fault Oliver can't recognize his own backyard, though I am thankful for it."

Oliver's still shaking his head in the back seat, but Daryl doesn't get it. "What're you talking about?"

"Handling people is pretty much what I do. And I figured out a long time ago that lowered expectations tend to make for a smoother ride. Especially when taking long road trips with trained assassins."

\--- 

The lobby, bar, and lounge are all in complete shambles, and the only thing they find in the kitchen is a half-empty canister of nutmeg and a walk-in cooler full of geeks. Both are clearly labeled. 

"Five star service to the bitter end," Oliver says, inspecting the lock, pleasantly surprised that it looks like it will hold. He turns his attention to the cabinets next to the sink. Next to the cleaning supplies, there's a small toolbox, full of old nails, bits of wire, and a dodgy pair of pliers; behind that is a bolt cutter that could do some damage, in a pinch, but nothing of immediate use.

"You don't need to be on my ass this whole time," Daryl grinds out, a little irritably, now that they're moving back through the pantry and towards what looks like an employee break room. "We'll clear this place faster if we split up."

"You're not exactly loaded for bear," Oliver points out, prepared for the withering glance when it comes. "You've got what, one knife on you?"

"And the ability to improvise," Daryl brandishes the skillet he's just grabbed off the sideboard- it's small, but made of cast iron- before gesturing over his shoulder towards the next hallway down. The movement pulls the sweatshirt tight over his arm, distracting Oliver from the embroidery on the back of his vest. "Seriously, I got this."

"I know you do," Oliver doesn't argue. Besides. That's not why he's here. They've been working their way around the first floor, and he knows the layout. 

He's known it, roughly, for years. They're going to eventually wind up by the entrance to the patio, and from here, all he can see is that the deck's all covered with snowdrifts and dead leaves. 

He hasn't been here in at least a decade- hasn't been much of one for mountains, honestly, since Lian Yu. When he'd first come back to Starling City, the mere _sight_ of fog banking up against the peaks had been enough to set him on edge. The last time he remembers being here, he'd been standing out on the patio, drunk off his ass and trying to shake off his father, who'd had a death-grip on his shoulder. His other hand had been stabbing at the lights on the top of Queen Enterprises, as if Oliver hadn't been able to pick out their constellation from all angles by the age of seven. 

It was always the same fight, those days. _Failure_ and _our city_ and _disappointed, Ollie_. As if Dad and his cronies were going to save it from itself. As if Oliver getting in a fight with a paparazzi was going to salt the damned earth. 

The last time he'd stood out on that patio, looking down at the city, he'd had bruises welling up under his suit jacket, and he hadn't given a damn about _any_ of it.

And that thought bothers him. Almost as much as what he's worried he's going to see this time, when he finally goes out there and makes himself look.


	26. Chapter 26

There's nothing outside but trees- either ice coated and skeletal, or clumped thick with snow- and it's oppressive as hell. It feels like they're surrounded, which is stupid, seein' as how the hotel parking lot ain't exactly the first clearing he's ever seen. Still, it's got him reaching for his crossbow every time he looks out the window. 

The results haven't changed yet, and he's getting sick and fucking tired of remembering that it's gone. Ain't like the Stryker had been all that great, far as crossbows went. It had just been in better shape, when he'd found it, than his old Scout had been. It was just a damned bow, nothing to get sentimental over, and he ain't got no business whining about it, seein' as how it was his own dumb ass that lost it in the first place. 

They've set up their base of operations in the kitchen, mostly because of the lack of exterior windows, and partially because if the walkers in the walk-in cooler are going to bust out, it's better to know right away. So far, though, Daryl's almost positive there ain't more than two in there, thudding and dragging weakly against the door. They haven't figured out the handle, yet, and even if they do, there's a padlocked latch welded right into the door. 

The feed from the drone Coulson's launched is updating every five seconds, and none of what he's seeing- beyond the fact that there's hardly any snow down there- really means anything to him. Coulson is cataloguing every image, and for all he knows, he's actually memorizing it. Oliver, on the other hand, Daryl doubts he's actually seeing anything at all, regardless of the fact that he's barely managed to tear his eyes from the screen. 

His own contribution to their intel gathering had started- and ended- with a road atlas of the West Coast that he'd found in the gift shop. It's got detailed views of all major cities from Seattle to San Diego, and Starling City's page is spread open on the kitchen counter. On it, Oliver's been sketching out some of the areas he'd already known to be destroyed. Between the map and the drone feed, they're starting to get a picture of what's going on. It's a start, anyway. 

The area Oliver calls the Glades is the most fucked up, when Oliver points it out on the screen. Far worse than Daryl'd been expecting. There are _cracks_ in the landscape, more like canyons than bombing sites, with buildings split in two and rubble tumbling into the rifts. There's no telling from the photos if they're looking at geeks or people, whenever they see movement. Either way, they haven't been seeing much of it. 

Maybe it's just that the sun's going down, or that the drone's switched to some kind of night vision, but the drone's starting to send back images of small fires scattered throughout the city. The pictures keep streaming in as it heads north; there's one frame of something that looks like a wall, and then it's too bright to make sense of anything.

"Hold on," Oliver says. "Coulson-"

"Switching to live stream," Coulson mutters, and three seconds later, a video feed replaces the still frames the drone's been sending. Hitting a few more keys, Coulson steps back, giving Daryl room to see a bit better. The drone starts following along the wall- concrete pylons, two or three rows of fencing, and at least three different gates, patrolled by what looks like the army. What stands out most, though, are the powerful lights on the north side of the barricade, lining and highlighting a huge swath of yellowish green, which in turn surrounds a huge, sprawling building.

"What's that," Daryl asks, pointing it out on the screen, suddenly hopeful. "Army base?" He knows it isn't the moment the thought occurs to him- someone would've mentioned it already. It does look like a castle, though, or a fort, and he's about to say so when he realizes inhaling's taking more effort than it should. He damn well better not be getting sick again, but the thought's enough that he changes his guess. "Hospital?"

Oliver leans in towards the screen, and then back, squinting. "No," he blinks, and looks quickly back down to his work with a gaze so focused it's got to be fake. "That's my house."

\--- 

"That's my house." _And it doesn't matter._

There's nothing important, there; it's not as if he's come back out of concern for how the gardens were doing. 

Honestly, he'd half-expected to come back and find it burned to the ground. Someone managed to get in and get some use out of it, that's fine. Everything that's vaguely important is on the wrong side of the barricades, between downtown and the Glades. They need to be checking warehouses, the garages around the stadium. Merlyn hadn't been running short on properties around town. And hell, for all Oliver knows, there could still be something at the chemical plant. 

He can feel the others staring at him in. Taking a breath, he looks up, wonders if he's going to have to spell it out. 

"There's nothing there. My mother was last seen in _prison_ , and my sister-" He shakes his head. "I sure as hell wasn't keeping my _armory_ anywhere my family could find it. Far as I'm concerned, anyone in there, using the art collection for kindling, they're welcome to it. My old house is not why we're here."

"No," Coulson says. "But it might be worth checking out."

"Why?"

"Anyone with that much electricity- anyone willing to _light up that much space_ , they've got power. It might mean that they're organized, and it might mean that there's people here who can help us."

Daryl shrugs. "Or it might mean Starling City's got it's very own Governor."

Coulson looks up at him, shrugging. "I'm inclined to believe you, actually. But one doesn't preclude the other. A city this large, there are probably other players involved, even on the city side of the barricades. And people in power, whatever their intentions, _that's_ the kind of thing they're going to be paying attention to. We're not going to know what they know until I go down there and check it out."

Oliver blinks up in surprise. "You?"

"This is just tactical," Coulson assures him, raising his hands. "It has nothing to do with your capabilities. If you can tell me that having to play diplomat with strangers who are squatting in your home _won't_ mess with your head, I'm willing to negotiate."

Oliver stares back at him for a moment, and then sighs, relenting. "What should we be doing instead?"

"Waiting here, with an eye on the screen and an ear on the radio. I'll be coming on, from time to time-"

"Holy shit," Daryl starts, when Coulson's words, and then his own exclamation, come through the speakers.

"-with periodic updates. You can raise me at any time through the program my hitting the space bar. It's an internal speaker; nobody else will be able to hear you. That Jeep in the garage, I'll take it far as I can, finish on foot. I'll skirt the Glades, find one of the checkpoints, and ask to talk to whoever's in charge."

"Just like that?"

Coulson shrugs, looks at Daryl. "It worked pretty well in Georgia."

Smirking at Daryl's chagrin, Oliver looks down at the map. The barricade's strong on the south side, weaker on the north. "But you could just go around-"

"He's right," Daryl cuts in, and it's surprising, for some reason, that he's been paying such close attention. "Whoever's squatting in your place, they're keeping an eye on the south side. Coming 'round from the north will just get their spines up."

Oliver nods. It's actually starting to come together, but there's room to negotiate. "Fair enough," he says, turning the map around to show both of them. "There's just one thing I need, if it's possible."

"What's that?"

"Your route in." He points at a spot on the map, boxed neatly in green marker. "In case you _don't_ get the chance to make it back before we come down, I need you to pass through this neighborhood here, tell me if you're seeing much activity. I've got a few weapons caches hidden in the area." The guns they'd brought notwithstanding, they'll all probably feel a hell of a lot better with something more than Daryl's frying pan backing him up. 

"Where?"

"This is the main one," he points out Verdant, just left of center in the box. There'd been chaos at the beginning, looting and the rest of it, but for the most part, people had been more intent on scattering than scavenging. The armory had already been hidden well enough before the bombs, and back when they'd still thought there'd be anything left to defend, Diggs and Felicity had helped him bury everything just a little bit deeper. "If there's anyone around, it probably won't pay to tip them off. Far as a starting point goes, it's the best one I can think of." 

And it's almost funny, seeing them both nod their agreement. Because for all of Coulson's concern about him not going back to the house, it had never occurred to him to ask where Oliver's _home_ had been. 

\--- 

There are only two crates of gear, not counting the weapons, food or their own packs, but Daryl has no idea what half the crap they've unloaded is for. Other than the crate of food and water and shitty instant coffee, the past few days, there's been no real need to go rummaging around too deeply in the back of the Suburban.

In one of the boxes, resting between layers of field towels, are two devices that look like bombs, all glass tubes and metal coils, sealed in plastic. Nothing to stop them going off but a button. He backs up, suddenly, and turns to Coulson, who's still watching the drone feed on the laptop. "The hell're these?" 

"Water heaters." He says, glancing down at them in obvious amusement, and Daryl's feeling just useless enough, dicking around here, that the urge to clock him one comes up, wild and sudden. "You need to boil water for food, or cut through a frozen lake, use the smaller one. The elements are closer together, it heats up hotter and faster. Larger one's for washing up. They don't hold much of a charge, just enough for a week or two, but you can plug it into the truck's arc generator for ten minutes and be good to go again."

"You're serious?" It's funny, how even just the possibility of getting clean can prevent people being murdered. 

"Portable version of the behemoth's water heater, yeah." He stands up- anyone else would be stretching, right now, but he merely gathers up the atlas. "Get cleaned up, eat something, get some sleep. I'm going to go out, top off my charge, and report back to Cheyenne."

"You sure you've got it? I mean, we could-"

"I know." Coulson pauses next to him on his way out the door. Looking pointedly out towards the lobby, where the last light of day's starting to fade. Oliver's propped a couch against the wall and is punching the hell out of it, viciously. "I believe your watch is best kept in here."

It sounds ominous as hell. Standing here in the kitchen doorway, actually _watching_ him throw punches, Daryl decides not to worry. Oliver doesn't seem the type to break a hand punching too hard, and even though it looks like he's a million miles away, he's probably not the type to drop his guard completely. He's fine. And besides. Daryl's got shit to do. 

There's no water at all, of course, but he'd spotted some clean trash cans back in the laundry room, with wheels on them and everything. He doesn't even have to set foot outside, at first, just shoves the snow into the can with a dustpan. Even with the heater thrown into the bottom for good measure, it's going to take a dozen or so trips to get enough for both of them to clean up. 

After a while, when Oliver realizes what Daryl's doing, he grabs his coat and follows his lead. At that point, there's no good reason to not fill up two sinks and two tubs. With all the effort they're making anyway, there's no good reason one of 'em needs dirty bathwater. 

He's fairly certain, in retrospect, that the reason Oliver'd been working out was so that he'd stink badly enough that Daryl wouldn't argue over who got first shot at the hot water. When it's his turn, he shoves warms up the water in the sink, first, before dialing up the heater and dropping it into the tub, already more water than snow. Grabbing a washrag off the rack, he washes his face, and shaves for the first time since Cheyenne, thanks in part to the basket of weird- apparently organic- toiletries sitting on the counter. 

Maybe it's the weird aromatherapy crap in the soap, but he's already sleepy as hell by the time the steam's rising off the water. Ditching the shit he's been wearing all week on the floor, he climbs in, draws the curtain shut to keep some of the warm air in, and sits down. 

It feels awesome- the tub's got a hot spot right under his left knee, where the heater'd been sitting, and even though there's only six inches of water in here at best, he doesn't really give a damn. He washes his hair with expensive smelling shampoo, scrubs at his skin lazily until the water starts getting cold. Rinsing off is awkward as hell- he feels like an idiot, standing naked in the bathtub with the waste bin from underneath the sink over his head- but it gets the job done. 

Dumping his dirty clothes in the tub to soak- he'll fuck with it later, unless he scavenges something better- he throws on his clean gear, combs his hair. He brushes his teeth and spits it out in the sink like a normal fucking human being. 

Maybe it's the steam, but he's feeling lightheaded, totally relaxed; it only dissipates a little bit when he opens the door to let all the cold air in. Crossing to the bed to throw on his boots, he notices a note, scrawled on hotel stationary, sitting next to his bag. Underneath is a ball of gray material. Socks. 

_Forgot to say- found a suitcase in 203. Awesome socks, you should try them. There's other stuff, too. I left it all up there._

It's got to be the weird headspace he's in, but he just winds up staring at them for a few minutes. He doesn't know what SmartWool's supposed to be- that's what they say, when he unfolds them- but they're making him feel dumb, like he's missing something. They're warm, though, when he finally gets it into his head to actually put them on. Comfortable in that way that only new socks ever are; it almost seems a shame to shove them back into his boots. 

The door to Oliver's room is open, when he ducks his head in, intending on thanking him, and when he goes back into the hallway, it doesn't sound like he's anywhere near. 

"Oliver?" he calls out heading for the stairs. He's out of breath before he even reaches them, and for the first time, it's actually _worrying_. 

"Where are ya, man?" There's no answer from upstairs, and the last threads of the relaxed daze he's been rolling with vanishes completely. 

He grabs the knife out of his belt and decides that the kitchen- despite the apparent strength of the cooler doors- is where he needs to start. There's no point being quiet about it now, so he calls out again, a few more times, taking deep, panting breaths between attempts. 

It's probably the elevation, he finally realizes, when he swings through the dining room and glances out the window, catching sight of the ski lift, and a swatch of the city, down below. In _any_ other circumstances, he'd be relieved. 

The cooler door's still locked. He would've heard if something had happened inside. Oliver's probably outside talking to Coulson, he tells himself. Nothing to worry about. Unless he'd spotted something. 

He grabs his coat and throws it on, grabs the shotgun from the weapons crate, and heads for the door. 

For once in his life, there really _isn't_ anything to worry about. Oliver's already coming in through the front door, with his bow over his shoulder and his hood pulled up, hauling in another bucket of snow. It's not until the door's shut behind him that the scowl on his face is at all discernible, but that doesn't stop Daryl from feeling like an idiot, standing there with the shotgun in his hands. 

"What the hell, man?"

Oliver rolls his eyes at the ceiling as he stamps the snow from his boots. "Just for the record? Going outside to piss is fine. Anything more than that and you're facing the wrath of god."

"Seriously?"

Oliver shrugs, heading for the kitchen, clearly still irritated. "He's not particularly interested in our help out there. Says we should be resting, not wasting our energy standing guard over a whole lot of nothing."

Daryl shrugs out of his coat, throws it on a chair, and leads the way back to the kitchen. Sorting through the food crate, he lets Oliver glower for a minute before speaking. "He seem weird to you? On the way over, I mean." 

"Other than the robot thing?" Oliver quirks a brow up at him and shrugs as he shoves the water heater into the bucket. "He actually came in here to take the computer away, when you were getting cleaned up. Was convinced that we'd just stay up all night watching it."

"Yeah?" _Not fucking likely_. He rummages around the crate some more. "Still wanna do that stew thing?"

"Sure," Oliver's glances down at the pouch, but he's skeptical. Even dehydrated, it don't look like much. "Think we should do something else on the side?"

"Got some rice in here," Daryl shrugs, dragging it out and tossing it onto the counter. "We could probably do it all up in one pot. Otherwise there's crackers." 

While Daryl rummages around looking for a measuring cup, Oliver picks up the conversation as he assembles the filtration unit. "I talked to Ward about him the other day... apparently, LMDs have the ability to turn parts of their programming on and off as they see fit."

"Yeah?" Going by the instructions on the dehydrated stew packet, they'll want to throw it in once the rice has been going for a while. 

"Limited free will." Oliver doesn't sound like he's sure he's got the right words. "Something like that, I dunno. They've got free reign, but they're programmed to resist anything that gets in the way of their mission objective. Including a sense of humor."

He sounds sarcastic and a little insulted, when he says this. Affronted- that's the word, and maybe it's just the lack of oxygen, but Oliver Queen cracking wise about someone else's career in standup is funny as hell right now. 

Daryl would probably laugh about it, if he could get enough air. 

\---

Dinner's as bland as hell, and neither of them eat as much as they probably should, but it beats the hell out of another round of MRE's. Coulson checks in on them once as they're eating, explains again that he'd prefer to stay with the radio, out in the truck, so he doesn't have to worry about waking anyone up, going in and out. 

"I know we're dug in pretty well, here, but don't let it go to your head," he says, lecturing them both as if they're total amateurs. "Finish up in here, find a room, or rooms across the hall from each other so you've got easy line of sight, close the curtains before turning on any lights. Don't do anything stupid." 

And maybe they _are_ total amateurs, because once they've eaten, there's not much to do besides sit in Daryl's room, drinking. 

"Gotta be careful," Oliver says, pouring their third round, because things like water heaters, real beds, and someone _else_ handling watch duty, need to be toasted. Even if he's faking it 'til he makes it. "Elevation's a bitch. Easy to get wasted like this." 

He hands Daryl's glass back, and maybe Oliver's not the only one with a buzz already; Daryl's staring at the table, absently running his thumb over his chin, like he's nervous about something, or lost in thought. Maybe he's just getting used to the sensation of being clean shaven for the first time in days.

Whatever it is, Oliver doesn't interrupt him. It's not like he's really in the mood for celebration himself, either. The silence drags on. 

He can just barely see the skyline of Starling City through the window. It's mostly delineated by where the fog _isn't_ , and the fog itself is only visible because of the moonlight; it's not, as he keeps imagining, that the lights in what used to be his front yard are actually _that_ bright. 

He thinks again about drawing the curtains shut. He'll be down there soon enough- close enough that the fog won't soften any of the edges, won't spare him any small detail. He'll see exactly what his failures look like, two years on, with complete clarity. 

But _hell_ , he figures. That's still three years short of his record. 

It had been a different kind of nerves, coming back the first time. When he'd spotted the fishing boat off Lian Yu, it hadn't been the first signal fire he'd set that month. It hadn't been the first boat he'd seen, either- just the only one that had wound up being real

The relief, of getting on board, of looking back and seeing the island getting smaller, of knowing that the boat was _real_ and that people still existed in the world- had overtaken him completely. But by the time the boat docked on the mainland, he'd been too overwhelmed, tired, maybe too shocked, to appreciate much of anything. The docks had been flooded with people and children and _cars_ , up on the road. There'd been gasoline-food-trash smells and noise and the first _music_ he'd heard in years. 

He'd stayed with the fishermen the first two nights, gutting fish to earn his keep; beyond that, he still doesn't remember much about the time between getting off the boat and actually making it to the Embassy. Just that his Mandarin had been laughable, and his English, when he'd needed it, had felt rusty. He'd lost the habit of speaking, and in any case, it hadn't been up to the task of pleading his case with bureaucrats. 

And then suddenly, one day, things had suddenly started happening very quickly. 

He was put on a plane, he was quarantined. Something about an infection, though he hadn't been feeling any worse than usual. He was contacted by a man named Arnold Jergens, a lawyer he'd never heard of, tasked with determining whether Oliver was really who he'd said he was. He was put on another plane, he was detained at customs and couldn't answer any of their questions well enough to satisfy them. He was taken to a hospital in an ambulance, and didn't even know that he was back _home_ until the nurse brought him a pamphlet from the front desk. She pointed out the address, pointed out the area code, and she'd held his hand, he thinks, until he cried himself to sleep. 

And through it all, he'd been angry, and terrified of everything, and angry some more. He'd known, before he'd even reached the States, that he wasn't the same anymore, that he wouldn't fit. That he _wasn't_ all right. All he'd had was one single purpose, one single lifeline, courtesy of his father's notebook. As long as he concentrated on that, he'd continue to survive. 

The thing is, though, that first night, when they'd finally let him look out at the city lights, telling him that his mother was coming to see him, he'd still been _hoping_ that he was wrong. Hoping that one of the doctors, his mother, _somebody_ , would just look at him and tell him he'd be fine, that everything was all right. That he could just _be_. 

He'd heard her voice, bleeding through the door. Her voice, not her words, as she spoke with the doctor, and they'd been enough to freeze him where he stood. 

He'd only been able to watch her through the reflection as she stepped into the room; he'd had to steel himself to turn.

"Oliver?"

"Mom," was all that he managed, watching her try to recognize her son somewhere in the mess standing in front of her.

She'd wrapped her arms around him, called him her _beautiful boy_ , she'd been talking to somebody else, somebody who was _supposed_ to be there. 

And that's the bitch of it all. If the right Oliver Queen had managed to come back the first time around, he might not be coming back this time to find everything looking so wrong. 

\--- 

They've been drinking for a while, now. Just sitting on the couch in Oliver's room, staring out the window and not really talking. 

Oliver's on lockdown- jaw set hard, eyes empty as shit. He's got his leathers on, though the jacket's slung over the arm of the couch. It won't take much for him to pull it on, though, on his way out the door. It ain't like he's got many reasons to stay; what's important is that he don't run out of reasons _not_ to go down there. Coulson had seen it coming; that's why he's out guarding the truck, and Daryl's in here, guarding Oliver.

And while this might've been the entire reason they wanted him to tag along on this gig, it doesn't mean he has a fucking clue what he's supposed to be doing. 

"All right, man," he eventually says, trying for casual, sure that he's missing it by fucking _miles_. "What's up? You're all quiet and shit, got that thousand yard stare goin' on, and it's starting to fuck with my vacation plans."

Oliver snorts. "Vacation?" He doesn't smile, but his eyebrow nearly twitches. It's something, at least. 

"Shit, yeah." Daryl considers it for a second, before setting his empty glass down on the table next to Oliver's and starts ticking them off on his fingers. Oliver can probably see, even if he doesn't turn to look. "We left Georgia- first time in my life, I might add. Sat on our asses all week while someone drove us out to a ski resort, just so's we could sit on our asses some more, getting drunk."

Oliver nods, rolling with it for now. "And hey, we haven't had to kill anything in a few days."

"Exactly. I'm so mellowed out, I think I'm gonna go into a coma." It's a lie- trying to be all upbeat and shit's got him on edge- but his arms feel lazy, underused. His back's still sore from the near total lack of activity, too, but bringing it up won't help anything. 

"That's just the elevation," Oliver points out, finally looking at him. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "But if you're bored, I guess we could go back to the kitchen, grab the bolt cutters from under the sink, and open the cooler."

Daryl pretends to consider it, eyeing the glasses and the bottle on the table for a moment before sitting up to pour them both another round. 

Oliver nods his thanks, distractedly, but he doesn't reach for it; he's still half-watching Daryl. "Is this seriously the first time you've been outside of Georgia?"

"Yeah." Daryl sighs, sitting back against the couch, hoping he's not going to ask him _why_. Just in case, he starts trying to come up with an answer that doesn't sound completely pathetic. That he couldn't, that he never had the money, or even any idea how to _be_ , anywhere else. He's thinkin' so hard on it that he nearly misses Oliver's next words.

"This must all be a little anticlimactic, then."

"Huh?" 

Oliver leans forward, sitting up, finally reaches for his drink. "Come out all this way, bored out of your mind, just to babysit me." 

"What?" He's going to grab his shit and leave, Daryl realizes. Any minute now. "Nah, man. It ain't like-"

"It is." Oliver raises his glass in salute as he eases back, grinning. "And it's fine." 

Daryl drinks when Oliver does, and waits, pretending not to watch the smile fade. Once it's gone completely, Oliver continues. 

"What they're trying to do, it's important. It might work, it might not, who knows. If some gunk off the lining of a storage tank is the best answer they've managed to come up with, we need get our hands on it. I might not know the exact locations where they're all hidden, but I know where to look. And despite what everyone's worried about, I do _know_ the odds are good that I'll just fuck shit up all over again if I bolt down there."

Nodding, Daryl takes two more sips of the whiskey, just small ones. Just enough to busy himself so he's not tempted to stare at the frustration on Oliver's face. 

"Doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about doing it anyway, ever since we got here." 

"One more day, is that going to change anything?"

"I know, it's fucking-" Oliver rubs a hand over his face. "But. I keep having all these stupid thoughts. Like, what if there's others trying to get their hands on the stuff right now, and they'll get it and be gone by morning."

"Yeah?" It's unlikely as hell, but there's got to be more to it than that. Daryl looks out the window, gives him some room to decide if he wants to keep talking. The clouds have shifted; the only way he can tell there's any civilization out there at all is the faint white tint hanging low in the sky, out to the north. It's the brightest thing he can see, right now, and it's miles away. 

"I mean...what if my family's still down there?"

Daryl's attention snaps back to _here_ , where he can barely see anything at all, and pulls his mouth tight over his teeth. He's trying to ignore the lurching panic that comes with remembering _exactly_ what it feels like to be the person asking that question. 

He's trying to decide whether answering it with another question won't just make things worse. "You don't know?"

Daryl can just make out the shape of his shoulders, hunched forward, when Oliver shakes his head. "I looked for my sister for weeks. Got some of my friends killed in the process." Oliver takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Thing is, I knew, the entire time, where my mother was. I could've gotten to her, but when I wasn't _hating_ her, I was... I don't know. Finding her just to let her know thatI lost Thea... I couldn't do it. By the time I pulled my head out of my ass enough to try- I'd gotten it in my head that maybe Thea would've gone there on her own- the prison had been completely overrun."

It's dark, so maybe Oliver can't see how uncertain Daryl is when he puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. It's awkward as hell- he doesn't know how long to leave it, if it's allowed at all. Doesn't know what it means that he can feel Oliver breathing, or if he'll fuck things up worse by pulling it away. The bottle's the only out he can think of, so he grabs it, tips more whiskey into their glasses. 

"Last year, I was out huntin' while the others went into town on a supply run. When they came back, Rick was with 'em- that was the first time we met. But my brother wasn't." Next to him, Oliver sits up, just enough to reach for his glass and drink. "Turns out, Merle had gone fuckin' postal. Picked a fight, started waving a gun around. So they left him chained up on a rooftop."

This gets Oliver's attention. "Seriously?" 

"Yeah. I made 'em take me back there so we could get him, an' fuck, I'd hated every single one of them, right then. Got up to the roof, found the cuffs. Merle's hand was just sitting there, where he'd cut it off. He wasn't dead, though. Not then." He takes a drink, larger than he should, just to feel it burn. "Dunno if it helps, but I kinda know how you're feeling right now, an' I'm sorry. But I'm gonna be a hypocrite here, and tell you to wait."

It takes a minute, and he's not sure he's been heard, but something in Oliver's posture grows less rigid, and he sprawls, a little more easily, back against the couch. 

Daryl doesn't know whether it's bravery or cowardice that keeps him in place when their shoulders touch, but he doesn't move a muscle. 

"I'm not going to go running down there," Oliver says- it sounds like he means it, at least. "Just. Thanks." 

It's stupid, the things that make Daryl tense up, so he disguises it with a half-assed laugh. "You wouldn't make it far, anyway. Coulson's got the truck."

"There's a garage full of snowmobiles right near the ski lift," Oliver says, shrugging. "I could be halfway to the highway before he even realized I was gone."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Daryl mutters, shaking his head, and suddenly, he's laughing. Not much, not loudly. 

When he hears and feels Oliver joining in next to him, though, the _want_ blindsides him completely. 

He needs to catch his breath, but the couch's got them all sunk together, and when he moves to sit up, his wrist winds up sandwiched; rasping denim on one side, leather on the other. It's warm, against the back of his hand, it's fucking him up and he _freezes_.

He's drunk. They both are, and Daryl wants...

Wants to kiss him, or something. Crawl all over him and pin him against the couch. 

He's _very_ drunk. He needs to go. Somewhere. _Now_.

Oliver's sitting back, giving him room to move, but he's not laughing any more, either. "What's up?"

"I don't-" Daryl pulls his hand back, pushes himself forward to sit on the edge of the seat; he's got no destination picked, no idea where to go, but Oliver's hand- warmer than the leather- is wrapping around his wrist. He's using him as leverage to pull himself forward, too. 

"Hey," Oliver's letting his wrist go but not backing off, either. He still smells clean, like soap. "You good?"

Mutely, Daryl nods, the blood pounding in his ears. Hopes like hell that it's dark enough that Oliver can't see how fucking insane he's gone. 

For a minute they just sit there, like that. Not moving, listening to the panic swelling, and starting, incrementally, to fade. 

"Want to ask you something." Oliver's voice is quiet. Doesn't need to be loud. "I know you're here to stop me from running off and doing something stupid." 

He's close enough that Daryl can feel his breath against the side of his neck; Oliver's the only one who's breathing at all, right now. But as sure as his words are, though there's something wavering underneath. Thin enough that it wouldn't hold up at normal volume. 

"I was wondering how you'd take it if I stayed, right here, and tried something stupid." 

Daryl's wound so tight, he can't manage more than a nod. Still terrified that this isn't what he thinks it might be, still terrified that it _is_. 

He can feel Oliver's shoulder twisting against his own; when it doesn't move away completely, Daryl finally lets out a breath. Oliver's touching his shoulder; slight pressure. Just enough to get him to look at him. And Daryl does. 

Even in the dark, he can see that Oliver's eyes are open, wide. Intense enough that Daryl flinches; his fingers, twitching against leather, is the last motion either of them make that can possibly be misconstrued. 

Oliver leans forward, pulls him in, and kisses him. 

Their mouths are closed, at first, but there's a shift, a little more room, almost, and Oliver's dragging-

Daryl _starts_ , like he's just been dreaming about falling and woken up, and Oliver pulls back, nearly as fast, but the panic's already- 

He can't look Oliver in the face, but he-

He has to say something, before this all- 

"I. Ah." He grabs Oliver's retreating arm, blindly. Stops it from moving. "Dunno what I'm-" He's probably crushing his shoulder, trying to stop himself from shaking. It takes him a moment to feel the hand that comes up to wrap around his own, holding him there. 

"Never made out with a guy before?" There's humor there, but his voice is small. He's not laughing. 

Daryl tries not to wince, shakes his head, and hopes he'll let him leave it at that. 

"It's cool," Oliver says. "You're good," but it's the way he clutches Daryl's hand, tight against his shoulder, that feels like an answer. 

When Daryl finally steels himself enough to look up at him again- when all he can manage, his mouth gone dry, is to turn his hand around in his grip and squeeze back- Oliver grins. Wide and stunning, like he's relieved. Like everything's okay, now. 

Daryl moves first, and Oliver meets him halfway. It's clumsy as hell, maybe, but he wouldn't really know. Oliver's still the first person he's ever kissed. 

But it's good. They've got this.


	27. Chapter 27

One way or another, Oliver will wind up bruised. Daryl's hands are too tight on his hips, and something's jabs him sharply in the back as they stumble against the wall. It's the thermostat, and when he shifts, trying to avoid it, the movement's sharper than he means it to be. 

Daryl pulls back, equally sharp and far too alert. He doesn't let go, but it's a near thing and he shifts forward, then back, as if he's not sure where to stand. 

Oliver catches him before he goes too far, pulls him until they're flush. Resists, for now, the urge to grind against him, as Daryl's still looking a bit stunned. Instead, he wraps his hand against the side of Daryl's neck- he can feel the carotid pulsing under his skin- and kisses him again. 

"This can be a one time thing, if you need it to be." He doesn't pull back to look him in the eye when he speaks; the closeness allows a certain distance. Even so, he's half-hoping it'll get lost somewhere in the inches between them. Daryl's shoulders rise and fall, and he pushes Oliver back against the wall. His grip's still looser than before, though, and Oliver steels himself against the likelihood that it will disappear completely. 

"You need me to decide right now?" Daryl's voice is quiet, rough, and with his hair falling into his eyes like it is, Oliver can't tell how much of the smirk is genuine, but he's moving in again, his mouth is on Oliver's neck, and it's enough of an answer for now.

Daryl's hands feel hot as he them slides up Oliver's sides, bracketing his ribs through his shirt. He stops, then, just leaves his hands there, stretching the cotton tight between his thumbs, and he stares down, like he's getting used to the overall shape of him. It's not until he moves closer, decision apparently made, that Oliver remembers to start breathing again. He manages half an inhalation before Daryl's mouth is there. 

He slides his hands down and around the small of Daryl's back, sliding under the hem of his shirt and tracing up along his spine. Scratching at his skin makes him twitch almost violently, so Oliver does it again, until Daryl's fists are wound in the fabric of his shirt, until he's attacking his mouth, hesitation gone. 

Until finally, Daryl's pressed against his canted hips, sliding his knee between his legs. 

Oliver grinds back, and Daryl _groans_ , cutting himself off the moment he realizes he's doing it. 

Oliver manages to get a hand between the two of them, down over Daryl's belt, fingers wrapping carefully around it, telegraphing every move. Daryl's stomach twitches, stuttering back when Oliver's thumb traces his hipbone. 

"Here," Oliver mutters. "Let me-" Without letting go, Oliver rolls Daryl back against the wall, and now it's _his_ turn to press against hips, to graze his teeth against the side of Daryl's throat. He leans back just a bit to yank his own shirt over his head, and it should be cold, but Daryl's hands are already there, finding all of his skin, spanning his shoulder blades, tracing his collarbone. Oliver doesn't wait, just rucks Daryl's shirt up until he gets the message and pulls it off, dropping it on the floor. He kisses Daryl's shoulder, just because it's there, and feels bare arms wrapping around his back. 

There's not much room between them; there's just enough to reach down between leather and denim. Just enough room to map him, warm and hard, through his jeans. 

He pulls back, means to ask, but even with eyes blown wide and shaking breaths, Daryl nods. 

Oliver goes slowly. Sternum, his side, his chest- there's a scar that drags, surprisingly smooth, under his lips- his navel, and lower, as he slides down. 

He knows he's breathing heavily.

In a minute, he'll probably be choking.

\--- 

Oliver's on his knees for him, leaning against his leg against the wall as he strokes him. Daryl's got no idea what he's supposed to be doing; he's trying to reach Oliver's shoulder, his arm, _something_ , only he can't remember why.

It feels _good_ , even when Oliver twists his wrist and makes him hit his head.

"Easy," Oliver smirks up at him, shoving his forearm against his hips and pressing him back against the wall. And then he opens his mouth, drags his tongue up the underside of him- and Daryl's not so naïve that he's not expecting it, but _fuck_ , it's good- warm and wet and cool and warm 'cause he ain't stopping. 

The arm's bracing him heavily, now; his own fingers just manage to reach Oliver's shoulder, but only for a second. He feels it, before he sees Oliver's mouth, sliding over him, his fist strokin' over what he can't fit. Warm, slick, almost tight heat. Something hard - _teeth_ \- just barely scraping against him. He keeps his fingers against the side of Oliver's jaw, his throat, and he can feel the way his throat moves when his tongue does. He can't see- Oliver's hair is in the way- so he runs his fingers through the tangles and pushes them back. 

He's not ready for the sensation of Oliver _moaning_ like that. Not ready for the sight of him, his other hand thrust down into his leathers. Not ready to meet his eyes, staring back up a him- _fuck_ , he's not ready, but- 

He whites out, almost completely. 

\-----

When he comes to again, Oliver's passed out, sprawled against him with his head against his shoulder, and all Daryl can think is that it's fucking odd, being naked like this with someone, trying to sleep. 

He's lyin' on his back, which is weird and not entirely comfortable, and his arm's pinned down, starting to go numb underneath Oliver's shoulder. He's going to need to do something about that soon. Instead, he finds himself brushing the side of his thumb over Oliver's side, tracing along what feels like a scar. Oliver's got a lot of them, scattered all over; some look meaner than others. 

It occurs to him that Oliver might not like him fucking with them, so he stops. Runs a hand over his own face instead; it feels weird. His jaw's sore, his mouth and chin feel like they've been sandblasted. Beard burn. Merle used to make fun of it on the girls he fucked around with, back in the day, the way their skin would be all chapped and red on their way out the door. What he'd say, seein' the same thing on Daryl's face, is all too fuckin' easy to picture. 

Merle's gone, though. 

Daryl kind of hates the part of himself that's relieved by that. Just like he kind of hates the part of himself that's so goddamn twitchy right now.

Oliver hadn't made a big deal of it; he'd just dragged the last of their clothing off of them and dragged them both up to the bed. And now he's sprawled against Daryl's side, with an arm over his chest and his head on his shoulder, and...

...it's just weird, this protective streak that's comin' up out of nowhere, but it's got Daryl settling in a little, shifting his now-completely asleep arm. He's trying to go slowly so he won't jostle Oliver, but it only makes him twice as clumsy. Oliver's stirring, starting to wake up.

"Sorry, man. Arm's asleep," he mutters, embarrassed 'cause it's probably something he should've known to think about before they'd dozed off in the first place. But Oliver just nods, rolls over to let him pull back the dead weight of his arm. The room's a lot colder than he'd realized, when the air gets in between them. 

It's remarkably easy to follow, to roll on his side and fit himself around Oliver, once the two of them get settled, and Oliver's shoulder is as good a resting spot for his hand as any. 

For all Daryl knows, this arm'll fall asleep too. 

But he's not really sure that he minds. 

\--- 

Daryl's a solid, warm weight against his back when Oliver wakes, close enough that it's likely that any movement will wake him. So Oliver stays still, tries to enjoy this while he can. He's warm. He's lying in an actual bed, muscles lax, limbs heavier than he's used to them being. He's probably safer now than he's been since he set out on the Queen's Gambit. 

Mostly, he's just staring at the bathroom door, trying to convince himself that everything's fine. 

He didn't just fuck things up between them. 

He didn't just fuck up the mission. 

Daryl's not going to wake up and look at him with complete revulsion. He's not going to avoid looking at him in the first place. 

They're good. Everything's fine. 

But Daryl's waking up, now. 

\---

Oliver doesn't move when Daryl rolls over and starts to sit up; it's that, more than anything else, that proves he's not sleeping. 

"You awake?"

"Yeah," Oliver says, before shoving himself up, glancing blearily at him. "Mostly?" 

It's not a big deal, he reminds himself, getting out of bed and pretending not to notice that neither of them are wearing any clothes. People have sex all the time without making a thing out of it. He gets dressed at what he guesses is his normal speed. As long as he pretends nothing's changed, Oliver won't see through him, won't finally figure him for the freak that he is. 

"You okay?"

He freezes, only for a second. Oliver's been around more, this is all second nature to him. It's best to follow his lead.

"What? Yeah. You?" Zipping his jeans to buy some time, he glances up to find Oliver looking at him; his eyes aren't nearly as casual as his voice had been, but he's turning away, grabbing his clothes off the floor. Pulling on his leathers, he stands up in one smooth, practiced movement. 

"Okay, look," he says, rubbing a hand over his face as he turns back to him. "You're acting weird, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?"

"What?" He shakes his head. "It's all good, man." The thing is, though, when he looks again, it's clear that Oliver's only asking because he already _knows_ something's up. Daryl's not doing this right. 

"Alright," Oliver says. There's something settling in behind his eyes when he smiles, though, and his back goes straight. "Good."

Daryl knows what this means, now, watching him head for the door. It means he's fucking this up, worse than he'd thought, and it's almost funny. He'd been so damned concerned about Oliver figuring him for the freak that he is, all he's managed to do is blow _him_ off first. 

"Hold up," he says, before Oliver reaches the door; he's surprised when the words are enough to freeze him in place. Daryl rakes his hair out of his face, his hands suddenly too empty, and winces. "You were gonna give me an out last night, yeah?"

Oliver freezes, just for a second, before turning back to him. His face is carefully blank; it tells Daryl everything he needs to know. "Yeah."

"I'm not takin' it," he says, running out of breath; he hadn't realized he'd been holding it. He thinks he's squinting again and tries to stop. "Not unless you want me to." Already, there's relief crossing Oliver's face, which makes it a hell of a lot easier to walk up to him, get back into his space. "Don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to be doin', is all." It's just as well he doesn't have to say this part so loud. He don't really feel like sayin' it in the first place. 

Oliver looks at him, his grin tight-lipped but real. After a moment, he concedes the point. "Not sure there's rules for this." Shrugging, he puts his hands on Daryl's shoulders; it's the first real sign that they're going to be okay. "And if there were, I'm pretty sure we outlived them, anyway." 

\--- 

"Quiet night?" Oliver asks Coulson, when they come down to find him puttering around in the kitchen.

"Very." Coulson says, when they come down to find him puttering around in the kitchen. "Forgive me if I don't ask you the same question, but I really don't want the details."

Daryl's eyes nearly bug out of his head; Oliver's the only one who catches Coulson's smirk as he turns away and heads out into the bar. "Coffee's on," he calls back, over his shoulder. "Grab whatever you want for breakfast. I want to make sure we've got everything covered before I head in to town."

"Yes sir," Oliver smirks and salutes, waiting for him to turn the corner before brushing up against Daryl under the pretense of pouring himself some coffee. 

"You good?"

"Fuck you, I'm fine." Daryl rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. There's no telling for certain, but it's likely that anyone at all knowing was what had set him off, rather than Coulson in particular. 

When they go out into the bar, Coulson's already got the atlas spread out and the laptop dialed in, just in case. 

It's got to be twenty degrees colder out in the bar than it had been in the kitchen, thanks to all the windows. "What're we looking at for the approach?"

"Good news is, soon as you get around to this side of the mountain, there's not nearly as much snow. Bad news, there's a lot more slush and possibly ice, so be careful on the drive down. I'll let you know how it goes once I've cleared it. I'm still planning on heading through the glades."

They've been through this already, more than once, but Oliver forces himself to pay attention, try looking for anything they've missed or taken for granted. Daryl manages to identify the shortest route and two alternates that will route them through all their high-priority sites, though by the time they've finished two cups of coffee each, all they can be sure of is that they won't know anything for certain until they get down there. 

Maybe Coulson will go down and find people who are willing and able to help. Daryl's convinced that whoever they find, they're probably going to attack. Oliver's not so bitter; he's betting on mistrustful disinterest. In any case, whether Coulson figures out whether to forge and alliance or cause a distraction, Oliver's only a few hours out from invading his hometown. 

His leg won't stop twitching. He only realizes that he's doing it when Daryl's knee jabs his thigh under the table, glaring sideways at him as he raises his sloshing coffee cup up off the atlas with an irritated sneer.

Ten minutes later, when they're trying to prioritize his best guesses for where the storage tanks might be, his knee's going again anyway. The process- similar to how they'd already discussed the weapons caches- feels severely regimented and detailed, especially for being based on nothing more than conjecture. 

"Keep an eye on the drones and an ear on the radio," Coulson instructs, finally satisfied that they're as prepared as they're going to be. "Anything you think I ought to know, report in. Otherwise, sit on your hands until I give the all clear. You got it?"

Daryl grunts a noncommittal "yeah," but Oliver can only manage a nod. 

"Don't sound so excited, guys." Coulson stands, straightening his jacket. At least he's ditched the suit for a tactical uniform, this time around. "This is only leading up to the most important thing either of you will ever do, after all."

\--- 

Coulson drives off in the Jeep and for a while, Daryl just stares out at the tracks it leaves. 

It's going to be a while before there's anything pressing; now's as good a time as any to get some water in, get cleaned up. Maybe, he thinks, in a while, the outbuildings will be worth checking out more deliberately. It's a long way down to the Glades, and it'll be a ways into the glades before they reach the first of the weapons caches. There's hiking trails around here, according to the maps at the front desk; whoever ran this place would've had to clear them out with _something_.

For now, he heads back inside to lean against the bar. He watches Oliver for a while, mostly in the reflection of the glass, and listens to the absolute nothing that's coming over the wire from Coulson. 

He's probably driving Oliver nuts, lurking like this, and the waiting can't be helping anything, either. 

"Gonna haul in some snow, get cleaned up," he eventually suggests, pushing off from the bar. "Then I'll take over on this so you can go." 

"Sounds good," Oliver says, sitting straight up on his bar stool and rubbing his hands together. "Gonna make more coffee. This stuff's weak as hell anyway." Oliver snags him as he moves past, rotating in his seat. Slides his hands between Daryl's shirts like it's normal, just something they do. "Gonna make breakfast, you want oatmeal? We've got that powdered egg shit, too."

"Food's food," he says, shrugging, pretending this all isn't surreal as hell. He thinks he might be happier, right now, than he's been in a long time. Oliver tastes faintly like coffee when they kiss. "I don't care."

\--- 

"...road's clear down to the highway... Just as we thought, the gridlock's pretty bad. Going to have to leave the Jeep and hike in the rest of the way..."

"...Okay, I circled back and waited. Nobody's come looking at the Jeep, so yeah, should be good to leave it there."

"...there's a bike shop. 37th and Pine. Doesn't look all that picked over. You two might want to consider it when you pass through..."

"Wow... It's one thing to see the crater from above, but from the ground? It's incredible."

They've been sitting on a couch in the lobby all damn morning, watching the computer and waiting for the periodic reports, and Daryl's attention is flagging. Oliver, on the other hand, gets twitchier with every update, especially now that Coulson's in the Glades. Not that Daryl plans on pointing that out. 

"I've reached Verdant," Coulson finally confirms, his voice quiet on the line; it's been about three hours since he's left and fifteen minutes since his last update. "Seeing signs of people around, but nobody's approaching me yet. Walker activity is present but minimal. Circling the block again, just to be sure."

Oliver leans forward, clearly eager for something to focus on; the drone's updating every two minutes, but it's not . "Does anyone have eyes on you?"

"I think it's safe to assume so. Registering people at three different windows on the last street. But nobody's coming out to say hi." 

Daryl edges Oliver out of the way and snags the laptop, backing through the cache of drone footage; it had been roughly over Coulson's location about twenty minutes ago. There'd been- and maybe still are- half a dozen kids, up on a nearby roof. It's impossible to tell what they're doing.

"As far as you can tell, is anyone following you?"

"No. They're only about as interested in me as the walkers are."

"Probably just waitin' for you to move on," Daryl figures. "Least we know they're there, right? How long before you hit the barricades?"

"About half a mile," Oliver cuts in, his fingers drumming on his knee as he adjusts the drone's course the way Coulson had shown him. They'd spent all morning talking about all the things that could go wrong, such as finding a herd of walkers only barely contained in one of the buildings, or wandering onto claimed territory. Now, though, it seems that Oliver crashing the drone out of spite is a viable concern. 

"Okay," Coulson eventually- _finally_ \- says. "I'm almost there, switching to external microphones." There's a definite drop in sound quality; there's wind, or maybe it's just fabric brushing against the mic. Either way, the static is grating. Daryl's reaching to turn it down when Oliver bats his hand away.

"Hello. My name is Phil Coulson," It's not as loud as it had been before, and definitely not as clear. "I need to talk to whoever's in charge. How do I make that happen?" 

"Right through here, sir, and I'll call it in." 

Daryl snorts, shaking his head. "Seriously? Just like that?" 

The guard's explaining to Coulson that weapons need to be checked at the gate, while Oliver shrugs, getting to his feet. "Hey, it worked at the prison."

Daryl nods, stifling a yawn, and tries to stay focused. 

"...have to submit to a bite search before going up to the estate. Same as everyone, regardless of rank. I'm sure you understand. Soon as you're cleared, you can head on up. Just tell whoever opens the door that you're looking for Malcolm Merlyn, they'll know where he is." 

He glances up, just in time to see Oliver's reaction. 

It ain't pretty.


	28. Chapter 28

" _If there's anything I've learned as a business man, it's redundancy._ " Even coughing up blood, back up on that rooftop, Malcolm's smirk had cut sharply. And then the Glades had fallen, because Oliver had been careless. 

Malcolm Merlyn was alive because he'd been sloppy. And now he's ruling the ruins from Oliver's own house, and it doesn't make any fucking sense, but at least he's not the only one asking the question. Coulson's still talking to the guard at the gate. 

"Malcolm Merlyn? Our reports indicate that he may have been the one who _blew up_ up the city." His question's followed by a distinct pause, and for all he knows they're pointing weapons at Coulson and preparing to shoot. 

Daryl leans forward with his hands on his knees, like he's preparing to push himself up and run out the door, as if either of them has a chance at stopping _anything_ from here. He turns to squint at Oliver, like he's waiting to be told what he's supposed to do next. As if Oliver's got a clue. 

There's a muttering on the line that he can't quite make out, so Oliver raises the volume as much as the laptop's shitty speakers will allow. 

"… was framed. Seriously. He's a good guy. Set all this up and made the only safe zone from here to Seattle."

"Yeah, 'cause _that_ kind of real estate doesn't buy a lot of friends." Daryl gives in to his impatience and stands, shaking his head.

"Could you fill in a few of the blanks for me?" Coulson's tone is affable and calm, and somehow completely unsurprising. It manages to come just short of slightly-pushy salesman. "I'd hate to offend anyone, especially if I'm going to be asking for his help."

"It all went down before I got here," the guard says. "I only got here a few months ago. But the way I hear it, it was all rich people drama, with a little bit of scorned woman thrown in, know what I'm saying? Anyway, about a year ago, his daughter came forward, cleared his name." 

"What happened?"

His adrenaline's spiking- he doesn't know why- but Oliver lunges forward, tapping into Coulson's comm line. "Bullshit. Malcolm doesn't _have_ a daughter." 

He'd just had a son. 

Oliver shakes his head, like it'll stop his brain from going _there_ , and ignores the way Daryl's questioning look verges on worried. 

On the line, though, Coulson's taking his outburst in stride. "And that was enough for everyone? I mean, no offense, but... it's her father. Wouldn't she be biased?"

"Way I hear it, no. She was her mother's daughter. She hated him as much as much as anyone did, maybe more. I dunno. You'd have to ask her about it." 

It's fucking ridiculous, how long it takes Oliver to realize who the guard has to be talking about. 

"She's a nice kid," The guard continues, unaware that the bottom's dropping out of Oliver's entire existence, that his heart's just stopped beating. "Name's Thea. Technically, that up there is her house." 

\--- 

Oliver's on his feet and across the room like a shot, heading out through the lobby, leaving Daryl scrambling to grab the laptop and his coat as he hurries after him. Through the doors, he can see the Suburban's tail lights coming on. Crashing through the front door, he winces as the cold hits. 

He's halfway there before he sees that the truck's not moving; he's three quarters of the way before he realizes that Oliver's not ditching him, that he probably just needs a minute. 

Daryl does what he can to hang back. Slows his pace, works his coat awkwardly on as he tries not to drop the laptop. The earbud charger is still dangling from the USB port, getting tangled up in the hood's cord. Detangling it buys him- buys them both- a few more seconds. So does stepping in Oliver's footprints as he follows them to the truck. They're widely spaced, because he'd been at a dead run, and they come to an end in a trampled slide by the still open door. 

Oliver's sitting sideways in the driver's seat, one foot still on the ground, but he's hunched over. Almost like he'd been gut-shot, only he's got a hand over his face, not his stomach. He doesn't look up, though Daryl's under no illusion that he's unaware of his presence. This stillness, though, it doesn't bode well. 

He thinks that maybe he should ask if he's doin' okay, or if he wants Daryl to fuck off back inside or something. But Oliver speaks first.

"Sorry." 

Daryl tosses his head to keep his hair from whipping into his eyes. "No worries. You alright?"

"I'm fine." Oliver grimaces, breaking off into a laugh that sounds unconvincing as hell. He doesn't look up. "My sister's alive."

Still half expecting to be told to fuck off- whatever they are to each other now, Daryl ain't sure he should be getting in his face- he crouches down next to the door to get a better look at him. From down here, he can just make Oliver's expression, underneath his hair. He looks-

Fuck, he looks like he's half a second out from becoming roadkill.

"That's good, though, ain't it?"

Oliver laughs again, and suddenly, Daryl gets it. The hood's comin' off his head, he's standing in a dirt ring with everyone screamin' bloody murder. Merle's standing there looking back at him, and nothing's _better_ the way it should be. 

"Hey," Daryl settles his weight, using the laptop to hold his balance against the side of the door as he tries to buy a few seconds to string some words together. He _wants_ to be able to say something like, 'hey, that's great, let's go get her,' but if it were that easy, Oliver would be halfway down the mountain by now. "So what's up?"

"I thought she was dead." Oliver raises his head, looking sideways out the windshield at the tracks Coulson's vehicle had left. "I mean. I looked for her for a long time. Then we got a lead on Blake." It takes a second to realize that he's talking about the Governor. Daryl wants to interrupt, but Oliver's swallowing hard, like whatever's coming next is costing him something. 

"I went after him, and I gave up on her... and now she's claiming that _he's_ her _father_ , and I-" He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Finally, he looks at Daryl, a little dazed. He's probably not seeing anything at all. "I have no fucking clue what's going on, or what to do."

Daryl nods, trying to ignore the wet snow melting through the knees of his jeans. He manages to wedge the laptop between the driver's seat and the frame, and uses it for leverage as he stands. Oliver tracks the movement, looking up at him distantly, like he's a million miles away now that they're at eye level. 

"We get down there," Daryl decides, because staying like this forever ain't exactly an option. "We do what we need to do, and then we'll get her back." He grabs Oliver's shoulder, but gets no reaction at all; Oliver just keeps staring through him. 

He wonders, suddenly, if this is what they'd been talking about when they'd recruited him to come out here. If _this_ was the reason Fury and Coulson had thought they'd need someone to keep Oliver from going off the reservation. If Fury and Coulson had _known_. The thought's a stray, and he doesn't like where it's leading, but that doesn't stop it from digging in. 

SHIELD's intel, at the outset, had to have come from somewhere. They're not the first ones chasing this lead. Maybe Fury'd had other agents running it, people like Clint. Maybe the two of them are just the last two bodies SHIELD's got to throw at this thing. 

But they're already in this, fuck the reasons, and stopping here won't do anyone any good. 

He owes Rick an apology, maybe a bottle of whiskey if he ever finds one, because he _gets_ it. He's going to have to tell Oliver that his own flesh and blood ain't the biggest problem they've got right now. That she's not as important as the mission. That Oliver can't go make sure she's okay, can't help her right now. 

It fucking sucks. 

He tries to look confident when he smiles. It still doesn't come out as firm as it probably should, but Oliver's only barely aware of him anyway. 

"Look, she's alive, right? She's at the house, and fucked up as that may be, she's got to be safer there than anywhere." 

Suddenly, Oliver eyes go wide and startled as he shifts his weight, moving like can't decide whether he's going to get out of the truck or just reach for the door, swing it shut and drive off. One hand's already on the wheel, and his entire face closes off. " _I have to- I didn't even- she-_ " 

His other hand hits Daryl in the shoulder, coming just short of shoving him out of the way, when suddenly he just _stops_ , chest heaving, staring down as his fingers curl into the fabric of Daryl's coat.

It's awkward as hell, reaching for him. Daryl just manages to avoid hitting his head on the frame as he hugs him, and for a minute, he just feels gangly and stupid, crowding him into the truck like this. But then Oliver shifts, slides his arms underneath Daryl's and around, holding on tight. Another deep breath, in and out, and he nods. 

"Shit, I'm a fucking head case." Oliver laughs, and normally _embarrassed_ wouldn't be an improvement on anything, but Daryl catches himself grinning. "Sorry. Again."

Giving Oliver another few seconds to compose himself, Daryl wonders if he should act on the impulse to kiss the side of his head. To make him feel better, or something.

He gives it a shot, and nothing explodes. Oliver just grabs tighter, for a second.


	29. Chapter 29

Thea's alive. 

She's down at the house, with Malcolm Merlyn, and-

She's _alive_ , and he really needs to pull it together, here. 

Weapons first, hopefully, then the samples. They'll start with the warehouse on Water Street, then the tunnels off the subway's western terminals, if they need to. If those don't pan out, there are still the other six red circles he's got drawn on the map. 

They'll get the samples, meet up with Coulson, and once they've gotten clear, he'll come back on his own. Find a way to get to Thea without being seen by Merlyn.

Without being seen by anyone, preferably, because Thea's alive, and she's going to kick his ass, and he really doesn't need any witnesses. 

He catches himself laughing, suddenly, as he puts the truck in gear. Daryl's watching him from the passenger's seat, but he doesn't say a word.

\--- 

It's Oliver's town, as much as it's anyone's, so it's only now that Daryl wonders if he should've argued over who got to drive.

Maybe it's just the snow and the tight turns, or the fact that he's in a moving truck rather than watching one on a screen, but it seems to Daryl that they're going a lot faster than Coulson had. When he glances over to gauge it, though, Oliver just blinks back at him. 

"What are we looking at?"

"Huh?" Daryl tears his eyes away from the speedometer, deciding that it's best not to know, honestly. 

"Anything from the drone?"

"Fucking hell," Daryl mutters, remembering the laptop he's still holding. The screen blinks slowly back to life, when he opens it, and is quickly covered with half a dozen alerts that say things like _Error: line int at port 43_ and _Null query. Retry or abort?_

He tries hitting enter three times, only to have the same message reappear. Aborting it, at least, shuts everything down. 

But they've lost the drone. Maybe it's already crashed to the ground. Maybe it's still heading out over the ocean. He hadn't thought to check it's trajectory when he'd slammed the laptop shut earlier.

They're running blind. He doesn't look at Oliver, and Oliver, pointedly, doesn't look at him. At least the comms are already dialed in to Coulson's frequency, and the lights on their chargers have gone green. 

Still, he's not breathing easy until he's got his earpiece twisted into place and he's on the line. 

"Coulson, sorry we went dark," he says, after tapping twice to activate it. "Technical difficulties."

Passing the other earpiece to Oliver, he waits for a response. When it doesn't come immediately, he starts to worry that the drone's not the only thing he's managed to totally fuck up. 

Serves them right for making him deal with all this computer shit in the first place. 

"Mmm," Coulson eventually says; could be, he's actually just responding to whoever he's talking to. But a moment later, another voice cuts in. " _Communication received and understood_." It sounds thin and-

"British?" Oliver scowls, confused when he glances over. Daryl shrugs; he doesn't have a clue either.

" _My secure communications system was borrowed, in part, from Stark's Iron Man suit. It's a long story, involving an AI system and a butler. Remind me tell you about it sometime. Nobody else can hear me. Finishing up at customs, here, will be heading up to the house in a few minutes. I'll keep Merlyn busy_."

Underneath the voice, they can hear Coulson, still talking to the guards, answering questions about the route he'd taken to get to the coast. Whoever he's talking to, their voices are more distant than the guards had seemed. Maybe they're on the move, or something, or just standing farther away, but without visuals, it's impossible to tell.

\--- 

About a mile before they reach the dead-car graveyard of the highway, Oliver drives around the first of the heavy concrete barricades, meant to block off access to the mountains. At first, when he'd heard that the Army was installing them, he'd assumed they'd just been trying to contain the panic, or slow down the virus's spread. 

Driving around them, though, is easy enough, and walkers wouldn't have cared. Before now, it's never occurred to him to worry about aftershocks, or what they could do to mountain roads, and honestly, it's probably for the best that he's only considering it as he edges the truck over the grass and back onto the road. 

Most of the cars are pointed south towards the interstate, but the underpass is clear enough. The homeless camp, sheltered by the road, doesn't look as shocking as it used to, but it's still empty. 

Out on the other side, there's still no movement besides what the wind's managing, and it's putting him on edge. There'd been just over a million people living here, not too long ago. Living or dead, there ought to be more signs of them.

"Got a walker out there," Daryl eventually mutters, pointing out his window, but they're already through the intersection, passing another block of apartment buildings. The fucked up thing about it isn't that Daryl's not startled, it's how _reassuring_ the news is. They go another few blocks before catching up to Coulson's truck, and Oliver slows down so Daryl can check it over as they pass. 

"Doesn't look like anyone's messed with it," he shrugs, but even so, it's probably best to push on, get some distance between their two means of escape if things go sideways. 

They make it another mile and a half west before the traffic gets too dense to pass, and Daryl snorts when they stop. Oliver's probably the only person in the past two years, maybe on the planet, who's bothered to pull into a marked parking space. 

They wait for a few minutes, and open the windows to listen, but nothing and nobody, if they're around, seem interested. At least it's warmer down here than it had been at the resort; There's almost no snow down here. The dampness of the streets, this time of year, is at least familiar. 

Daryl tosses his coat on the floor and shoves it under the seat. Oliver almost hits him in the head with the pack he's dragging from the back. 

"You got your key?" 

Daryl's hand goes to his pocket before he nods. Once they're out of the truck, Oliver sets the alarm. The blue blinking light is obvious enough that anyone looking to mess with it will have to seriously consider the noise it'll make, and what will hear it. 

They don't speak, once their boots are on the ground, even though there are still no signs of life in the immediate vicinity. 

It's at least ten minutes before Oliver sees the another walker, though if the wind were blowing differently, he probably would've smelled it, first. Something's taken a large chunk out of it's side, and it's dragging itself weakly on its arms. Daryl takes it out with his knife simply enough, though it's unlikely they'll have such an easy time of all of them.

They find two more a few blocks later. Oliver takes care of both of them before Daryl's tempted to get too close, and the strain of pulling back the bow is sharper than it should be, but it's welcome. 

It's unsettling, how empty the city is. This place had still been teeming with them, when he'd left. Maybe it's just the humidity, doing its thing. 

He's pulling his arrow out of the second one he'd downed when he glances up to see the gap in the skyline.

It's not that he hasn't been expecting it, or that he hadn't seen it from miles away. It's just suddenly a lot _closer_. There's skyscrapers, one of which- only vaguely recognizable as the Chesterfield- is listing dangerously, and then there's nothing. 

He'd been to a party in the penthouse, once. Can't even remember who'd been throwing it. 

As they get closer, they pass evidence of the blast that had been shocking, at first, until it had become the norm. But he's been gone just long enough, apparently, that he's seeing it all over again. Chunks of pavement, jutting up at craggy angles. Debris piles of disintegrating rock and twisted metal. Along the next block are dozens of panels of spider-web fractured glass, draped over sidewalks and bike racks; they hadn't quite shattered when they'd fallen. The gaps in the buildings' facades look like punched-out teeth. 

There are entire city blocks burned down to rubble. 

And he could've stopped all of it. 

The ground's rough enough, this close to the glades, that any car they see has definitely been stopped there since before the blast. There are areas where it's so bad not even a bike could get through; he wishes he remembers which ones more clearly, either from before or from the drone's footage, but they wind up scrambling over debris piles far more often than he'd like.

And while they're doing that, it's impossible to ignore how exposed they are. 

He'd seen just enough on the drones to know that they're not, despite what his eyes are telling him, alone down here.


	30. Chapter 30

Daryl's got his comms on; he's been listening for both of them once it became obvious that the sound of Merlyn's voice, when Coulson had introduced himself, is an unwelcome distraction. And seeing how Oliver's handling both navigation and the only long-range weapons they've got, listening- and not tripping over torn-up concrete- is the only way Daryl's got to make himself useful. 

Merlyn, now that Daryl's gotten used to hearing his voice, doesn't _sound_ like a monster. Maybe he's just playing nice for Coulson, but it's hard to believe that a man that sounds like that is responsible for the parking lot full of burnt trash and bodies they're passing. There's no movement from the heaps, but Oliver's got an arrow nocked and one eye on Daryl, all the same. 

It's small talk, mostly, that Daryl's hearing. At first, it's mostly about Coulson, about SHIELD, the same kind of questions Rick had been concerned about back at the prison. The conversation moves, soon enough, to the extent of the barricades and the size of the camp. There's the main house- Oliver's, apparently, once- with Merlyn's house a quarter of a mile to the north. That one, they've turned into a hospital, and most of the people are camped near there or in the woods nearby.

Part of him wants to ask Oliver about it; he'd thought the yard, with its floodlights and fencing, had been the extent of it. 

"Thea stays up at the house, but mostly it's our center of operations and storehouse. Kind of our first point of entry, not that we have a lot of people wanting to stay there if they've got the option" Merlyn's explaining, and it sounds like they might be heading on to something useful, so he signals Oliver to turn his comms on. "They just don't want to _see_ it, I think, and nobody wants their kids so close to the line. But the barricades are strong, and we've got good people patrolling them."

"Do your people ever go out into the city? Because I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised to make it through the gate."

"Everyone's welcome here," Merlyn replies. "But yes, we go out a few times a week. Supply runs, mostly, but we're still doing outreach."

"Outreach?"

"They started off as extermination runs, to be honest. Easier to keep the barricade going if there were fewer bodies throwing themselves against it. But there are survivors out there, still. My daughter, before we found her, she was staying out there. Read me the riot act the day she made it to the barricade, and said that if we didn't make sure everyone _knew_ they weren't being hemmed in, it was just as good as leaving them for dead." There's a pause here, but Oliver's picking his way over an upturned tree; Daryl can't read his reaction from here. "And she was right, to be honest. We've got a hundred seventy people, almost, in the camp, and almost half of them only came in after Thea did."

"Thea?"

"My daughter. She's... she's amazing. If it wasn't for her, this place would be in shambles. I'll introduce you when she gets back; she said something earlier about heading up to the camp."

"I have to say," Coulson says, just short of awed, "you seem to have a good thing going, here."

"We do," Merlyn says, after a moment. "But that's not really _enough_ , is it."

\---

Up ahead, on the other side of the intersection, someone's built up a low wall of cars, torn up fencing, and bedroom doors. It's ramshackle, nothing compared to the barricade on the north side of the Glades, but it's a clear delineation. There are at least three good positions with line of sight on this portion of the road. 

It could be months old, but it's not worth the risk. Oliver signals Daryl; they need to turn around and backtrack. They'll head down another few blocks; if they come across another one, they'll reassess going over it then. Any further south, and they'll be climbing through the crater itself. 

For all he knows, people are still throwing the bodies down there. It's not a pleasant hike. 

Now that they're getting into the industrial district, some of the obvious signs of rioting and looting are falling away. There are fewer storefronts, here. No windows, less broken glass. There's less to distract him from the voices on the radio.

Coulson's finally getting to the point, now that his tour's finished and they've sat down, apparently in the main parlor. He tries not to picture it too clearly.

"...so we know that the chemical that got released bore a strong resemblance to an experimental compound your company was working on."

"We never-" 

"I know," Coulson replies, his tone placating. "Your regulatory documentation was all up to date and on file, as you can see here; we know it wasn't anything Merlyn Industries was actively working on. But would you mind talking me through it?" Oliver glances at Daryl to gauge his reaction. Coulson hadn't said anything about documentation before; he could just be blowing smoke up Merlyn's ass, but it's a detail he hadn't thought to prepare for. Either way, it takes Merlyn a minute to respond. 

"We _had_ been working on developing tear gas alternative," Malcolm admits. "Something that could be used to calm down a large group without causing them agonizing _pain_ and making a bad situation- such as a riot- worse. Our contract was with the DOD; the DOJ was showing interest as well, as you can imagine. One batch was showing promise in the lab; we'd gotten as far as phase two testing when we realized the limitations. It only worked in liquid form."

"And that was a problem?"

"It might've had its uses, but hosing people down was exactly what we were trying to get away from. Anyway. Our clients were reconsidering, so we filed away the results, packed up the research, and sent the remaining samples off to be destroyed. Or, well. So we thought."

"What do you mean?"

There's a long pause, here, before Malcolm replies. "At first, we thought it was vandals. We didn't know it was espionage. I presume you're aware of the accusations against me?" 

"That you were responsible for the destruction of the entire city? Yes, I was," Coulson says. "And in the interest of full disclosure, I wasn't sure what I thought about that until I arrived."

"Really." Merlyn doesn't sound amused, but he's tactful. "Mind if I ask what changed your mind?"

"Creating a safe zone- doing what you've done here? It doesn't exactly strike me the action of a monster hell bent on world domination."

"Well, thank you for that, I guess" Merlyn says; visualizing his wincing grin is far too easy. "To be honest, though, I believe I am somewhat culpable in this."

Oliver freezes in his tracks. Outright denial seems to have been doing Malcolm well; changing it up at this point in the game is just careless. 

"I should have seen it coming. Moira Queen was an associate of mine for years. We got along well enough, at times- we used to be quite close, but-" he breaks off into laughter, here, and it sounds kind of defeated. 

There's a beat before Coulson prompts him. "I'm presuming it's a bit more complicated than the news made out?"

"Partially because of our daughter, who, well... it was best for all involved if Moira's husband was the father. And I agreed, honestly. I'm not proud of it, but there it is." It sounds like he's coughing. "Anyway. Thea's a great girl- I mean what I said earlier- but she was going through a rough patch. Drinking, drugs. All that. I expressed my concerns, and Moira didn't take it well." There's another pause, and Oliver's only imagining him leaning forward in his chair- the brown leather one with the stupid legs Oliver had stubbed his toes on more than once. "What do you know about the Queen family? Besides the accusations."

"The father and son disappeared at sea for... ten years?" Oliver grins despite himself. Coulson's as good at playing the game as Merlyn is, at the very least. 

"Five," Malcolm corrects him. "Moira, she'd already lost her husband and son. I think she thought I was threatening to take her daughter away as well. It was a bad time for everyone involved. Thea was miserable, I was angry. Moira was threatening to destroy me if I ever _hinted_ at what I knew. But here's where it gets interesting."

Daryl's standing in front of him, squinting curiously. Oliver deliberately uncurls his fists, keeps breathing. This is all intel. He can't go in blind, when the time comes. Even if Malcolm doesn't really believe all this himself, he's probably convinced others. He'll have people- allies- who believe him and believe _in_ him. 

"Skip forward a few months. Moira's son returns from the dead. Less than a month after that, a vigilante starts harassing local executives, including me. He was targeting city officials, too, with a bow and arrow, of all the damned... he was _killing_ people, only I was never able to prove it."

"And the two of them," Coulson says, picking up the thread, sounding just a little bit cautious, "they figured out how to get you out of the picture entirely."

"It's far fetched, I know. But you've got to believe me, Oliver? Thea's brother? When he came back from where he'd been, there was something... crazed about him."

"I can only imagine," Coulson replies, sounding impressed. "Five years on a desert island? That's got to do something bad to a man's head. Then you get back to the family you thought you'd lost, and hear that- and forgive me, I'm just playing it out- your mother tells you that someone's trying to tear it apart? It sounds like the perfect storm."

It's social engineering, he reminds himself. There's no call to get on the line and start shouting at Coulson, even if he wants to. 

Coulson's just sounding awed in order to reinforce that Malcolm's the one in power. He's spitballing suppositions based on what Malcolm's just told him, in order to give the appearance of coming to the correct conclusion on his own. Casebook social engineering. There's no reason to flinch. 

But then Malcolm replies, and he's not bad at playing the game, either. "There was nothing perfect about it," he tells Coulson, his voice bitter. "Because that was all bad enough, but then? Oliver killed my son. That part of the story never quite made it to the headlines."

It's a lie, sandwiched in between just enough truth that Oliver's hands are shaking.

Thankfully, Daryl's turned away, scanning the street like he's searching for something. Maybe he's just trying to give him some privacy. 

But then he sees it- movement up ahead, a flash of someone in a gray coat, moving too fast to be a walker. It's there and gone again, ducking around a corner and back into the alley. 

\--- 

As they approach the corner where the figure had vanished, Daryl takes the safety off and waits for Oliver to spread out. There aren't any windows on this block, no convenient cars parked nearby, so there are no useful reflections, nothing that'll let them see around corners. They cross to the far side of the street, widening their angle of approach.

Whoever'd been there is gone by the time they're passing by; either they've got an exit that isn't visible from here, or they're hiding behind the dumpster. 

Oliver shakes his head, like he's decided that if they're hiding, they're not an immediate threat. Daryl's about to argue when Oliver takes off, moving more quickly than before. 

Daryl has to run a few steps to catch up, and he's just about to call him on it when Oliver turns another corner, suddenly, and stops short. 

In front of them is a wide street and another warehouse, only this one's got a sign over the door that reads _Verdant_. The wall is riddled with bullet holes, but that's not the rare sight it might've been, once.

Oliver glances over his shoulder, waves for Daryl to come up and join him, before leading him around to the far side of the building. They pick their way carefully down the wide, empty alley, heading towards the loading dock, but it's the unobtrusive gray door that's got Oliver's attention. 

It's locked, but he digs a key ring out of his pocket. Daryl's not sure what's stranger- that Oliver's been carrying keys around all this time, or that one of them actually works. 

He's got the door opened, and he's gesturing for silence, in case Daryl's turned into some sort of idiot in the last thirty seconds. By the time he's stepping inside, Daryl's back on his six again. 

It's dark, but Oliver obviously knows the way and doesn't see a need to break out the flashlight, so Daryl's mostly stuck following closely behind him while his eyes try to adjust. They're moving slowly, past janitorial equipment, crates and speakers, until they've gone what must be the full length of the building. 

"Stairs," Oliver mutters, lifting a large black plastic garbage can out of the way; it's standing in front of a door that Daryl wouldn't have given a second glance, if he'd noticed it at all.

The stairs are metal; he tries to be as quiet as he can, but can still hear his footsteps echoing as they descend; it only takes a few steps for the last of the light from the corridor above to disappear entirely, and he crashes into Oliver from behind when they reach the floor. 

They freeze, listening for what feels like several minutes, but there's no answering noise. Nobody coming to investigate. 

A nudge from Oliver is all the warning Daryl gets before the flashlight finally comes on, showing nothing but cases of bar supplies and what looks like an old desk. 

It's not what he was expecting- if this really had been Oliver's base of operations, it's a lot lower profile than he would've thought. Oliver's taking it in stride, though, so apparently, this is what he'd been expecting to find. Telling himself that it's actually a good sign, Daryl follows the glow of the flashlight across the floor, stopping when Oliver does.

Oliver passes him the flashlight and crouches in front of a long metal trunk. Again, his keys work; the sound of the latch disengaging is loud, echoing off the walls. 

That's when the light comes on. Just one, hanging low in the middle of the room. 

Oliver's up in a flash, trunk forgotten and arrow knocked, and Daryl moves to cover his back, gun raised even though he doesn't know where to look. 

"Don't move," a man's voice says, bouncing off the walls and floor. The echo hasn't quite faded when he speaks again. 

"Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding me." 

Daryl follows Oliver's aim up to the the top of the stairs, where it lands on the business end of a handgun, already being lowered. There's no making out the man's face, since the light's about level with his feet, but he's already walking down the stairs.

"Welcome back, Oliver," the guy says, shaking his head and pulling off his hood as he reaches the floor. "You fucking asshole."


	31. Chapter 31

" _Roy?_ " Oliver lowers his bow as an afterthought, more reluctantly than he would've expected. Up until a few seconds ago, he'd been planning on hailing Coulson to let him know they'd arrived. Moving for his radio doesn't seem wise right now.

"Nice hair," Roy says, coming to a stop three feet away. "You look like shit."

Oliver knows that he's staring in disbelief, tries to shake it off. Roy's sweatshirt is green, not red, but he's too much like a memory to be real. 

His hand feels solid enough when they shake, though, and Oliver can't remember ever seeing him look dazed and angry and grinning, all at once. "Seriously, we thought-" Cutting himself off, Roy shakes his head and claps him on the arm as he steps back. "Fuck it. It's good to see you, man."

"Likewise," Oliver nods. "I looked for you," he says, regretting the platitude immediately. It's a half-truth, and they both know it. Oliver _had_ looked, if only in hopes that Thea had been with him.

"Yeah," Roy shrugs, and doesn't bother keeping the reproach out of his voice. "We looked for _you_ , too, for all the good it did." He'd been mostly sharp angles even before everything had gone to hell, but now there's a lean pointedness to him that's downright unnerving. It might have something to do with the stubble shadowing his jaw, or that he's lost ten or fifteen pounds he hadn't been able to afford in the first place. Everybody's a lot hungrier than they used to be, these days.

Roy nods at Daryl, eyes hovering on the gun in his hand a beat longer than necessary. It's not the iciest grin this club's ever seen by far, but it's not the warmest, either, as he holds out his hand. "Roy Harper."

"Daryl Dixon." He lowers his gun before they shake, but he's suspicious and not bothering to hide it. "Good to meet you."

"You too." Roy makes a show of relaxing, jutting his head on Oliver's direction. "Though I gotta ask, man, how'd you end up with this guy?"

Daryl shrugs. "Same's anyone, these days." 

Roy snorts a muted laugh and, finally holstering his sidearm, rounds back towards Oliver again. "So what the fuck, man. Where have you _been_?"

He thinks that maybe, he should've been expecting the question. "Went east. Trying to find the people responsible." 

"Yeah?" Roy rolls his eyes, though he's still smirking. "Well maybe your vigilante ass should've thought of that, I dunno, _before_ the end of the world."

Oliver snorts. "If I hadn't been babysitting my kid sister's punk _boyfriend_ , I would've had the time."

"Fuck you, man- if you'd just _told_ me, I would've-"

"I know." Oliver takes one step forward. Roy flinches, visibly enough that Oliver instantly feels like an asshole. "But if I had, you would've been collateral, same as Thea and anyone-"

"She's alive," Roy hurries to say, nervous now that the balance of power's shifted so obviously. "Thea, I mean."

"I know," Oliver nods, glancing at Daryl. His arms are crossed, and the look in his eye is plain enough: he's not unsympathetic, but this is slowing them down. Oliver takes a breath, because it's obvious Roy's already retreating, and that's not what they need right now. 

"Okay," he says, hands raised in apology. "So you're here, and Thea's up at the house with Merlyn. What happened?"

Roy scratches his arm. "When the riots broke out and we couldn't find you, she got it into her head that you had, like, a nervous breakdown or something. She was convinced that you'd run up into the mountains- I don't know _why_ , but-"

"Fuck." Oliver rolls his eyes- at himself, more than anything- and shakes his head. "Probably because I told her."

"The hell?" Daryl snorts, like it's the craziest thing he's ever heard, but Roy's just staring back at him. 

"She started wondering where I disappeared to at night. Couldn't let her know what I was doing, so I... I told her that I went hiking whenever being back in civilization was getting too much." It hadn't even been a lie, some nights. 

"Yeah, well..." Roy glances between the two of them. "Your family was about as popular as the Merlyns were, when the riots started. We needed to get the fuck outta Dodge anyway, so we went looking." He looks at Oliver, shrugging defensively when he meets his eyes. "And fuck it. She was safer _there_ than she would've been down _here_."

Carefully, still not certain it won't be shaken off, he grabs Roy's shoulder. "I don't doubt it." Oliver lets out the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding. "Thanks for looking out for her." 

He glances over at Daryl, whose eyes have gone distant, focusing on the dust floating in the middle of the room, reminding him that he, too, should probably be paying attention to the comms line. Coulson and Merlyn are talking in his ear again- something about heading west to the lab- but he only barely catches it. 

"I did try to find you, you know," he tells Roy, deciding that Daryl will let him know if there's something he needs to hear. "Even went up to check the prison, but the roads were washed out."

Roy smiles thinly, nodding once. "Yeah. Felicity told us, later, ah... when she told us about everything else." 

"Everything else?"

"Oliver Queen, Playboy Vigilante." The amusement's there and gone in an instant. "Look, I'm sorry, man. I know she was your friend, and she was good people, you know?"

He'd known, deep down, that Felicity had died, though he hadn't seen it for himself. Having it confirmed, though, still feels like a punch to the gut. 

"She... fuck, I'm pretty sure she sacrificed herself to save our sorry asses."

"I saw her," he says. "That _day_ , I think- I was out, looking for, fuel for the bike. We'd gotten a lead on one of the guys Merlyn was working with, and the fighting was getting closer. I had to call it, you know?" 

Roy nods; from his expression, it's likely he'd seen it firsthand. "So what happened?"

"I had to go all the way down to Seventh to find a full tank. Was on my way back- we were camped out next door to here," he points, not entirely sure he's found the right direction, "because we didn't anyone to know about this place." He's not sure what he's expecting, but Roy's just nodding. Of course, he probably already knows. Because Felicity must've told him, sometime between when he'd left for gas and left her for dead.

He doesn't feel like talking about it any more, but he's not done. "Heard gunshots, but it was over with by the time I got here. Everyone who was still alive had scattered, and everyone who wasn't, they were just scattering more slowly. We had a rendezvous picked out on the south side, but-" 

He catches movement in the corner of his eye, and when he glances over, Daryl's got his back turned; over the earpiece he can hear him asking Coulson to confirm an exact location. 

"Pier 7," Coulson's robotic voice responds. They've got to get going. 

Roy waits until he turns around, keeps his voice low and fast, like he knows they're on a timeline. "The gunfire, all of it. They were after me and Thea. Me and her, we'd been arguing for days. It had started snowing up there, and we were freezing our asses off. I'd finally convinced her that if you were still alive, you'd be looking for her somewhere familiar, so we came back down. Saw all these trucks parked on your lawn so we didn't go near it, but then we went to that diner she said you liked. Over on Dalton?"

Daryl steps forward but isn't saying anything, yet. They've got a minute or two. Oliver nods.

"These dudes were there, started coming after us, armed to the teeth. They fired a few shots, but it wasn't like we were gonna stop, so we ran, and they came after us. We got lucky on a shortcut, got some distance, and came here when we realized how close we were- I think she was still hoping you'd be holed up, but we couldn't get in. That's when Felicity found us.

"She took us into the building next door and told us everything. She was kinda freaking out, but she told us you were alive, and- when Thea started getting in her face- she told us that you were the vigilante." Roy looks up at Oliver. "It was super obvious she didn't want to say, though, if it's worth anything. And she wouldn't tell us why she was in the building next door instead of here. I didn't figure it out until later, when I broke in."

It is, but Oliver doesn't want to interrupt, doesn't want to get into how much it hurts knowing that she'd worried so much about it, even right then, so he just nods. 

"She wanted us to wait there for you, next door, but there was noise coming from outside. She made us wait and went to go check it out. I don't really know what happened. The dudes must've suspected we'd go to Verdant- we figured later that they knew your family owned this place. Anyway, she came running back in and led us to the back, real fast. Didn't know what was going on, not even when we were out on the loading dock, and she was asking me if I knew how to ride a motorcycle." He laughs, but it's a bit manic. "She told us to get out to your housekeeper's old place, and that you and her would meet us there. She said that as scary as those dudes were, they weren't shit compared to what you'd be like if I got Thea killed, so I gunned it out of there."

Oliver doesn't have to ask. "You never made the meeting point."

"No," Roy said. "We didn't. Turned out, they had friends and radios, and Thea had a price on her head."

Daryl groans; he's been pacing this entire time, but the last of his patience is running out. "What?"

Roy holds up his hands and looks back at him apologetically. "Long story short, Malcolm Merlyn was back, setting up shop at the Queen Estate, and starting to organize people. He'd put a reward out for anyone who could find Thea. His goons caught up with us, and she went with them on condition that they let me go. Thea never managed to get word to me where your housekeeper lived until way later, so I didn't know where to go. I figured word would get out when you were spotted, and I'd find you then, but it never happened."

"Where've you been since then? You ever talk to her?"

"I've been around. Get in to see here once in a while but we have to be careful about it. We've got people on the line, though, you know? She's safer there than anywhere else, honestly. Merlyn seems to really believe he's her father."

"She's a _hostage_ ," Oliver points out

"No shit," Roy says, his lip curling briefly. "Here's the thing, though. There's a huge fucking wall between Merlyn's camp and the city. There's plenty of gates, but that doesn't mean we're not seeing the guys with guns guarding them. It's going to come to a head at some point, and Thea knows this as much as any of us. She's more worried about what'll happen to anyone who helps her get over the fence."

Oliver takes a breath, ignoring, for the moment, the part he's played creating this mess. "And you're satisfied with that?"

"Fuck no," Roy scoffs. "It's just- I'm not exactly running around out here with a lot of people willing to go to bat just for some chick in a mansion right now." He shakes his head and looks up at him. "Unless you're in?"

"We're in," Daryl says to Roy, sure and confident, before Oliver gets the chance; it's kind of blindsiding, but he thinks he's falling- maybe he's fallen- in love with him. "But there's something else we gotta do first. You interested?"


	32. Chapter 32

"Merlyn's already got the samples we need back at his lab, sounds like," Daryl says, now that Oliver finally looks like he's ready to try getting his head back in the game. "The way I figure it, we should split up. Hit the lab and the house at the same time."

"What?" Oliver shakes his head; the good mood he'd seemed to stumble into is gone in a flash. "No, that's _not_ an option."

Daryl grimaces, because that, right there, is all the confirmation he needs to know that Oliver hasn't heard a single damn thing Coulson and Merlyn have been goin' on about this whole time. It's not like he blames him- Oliver's got to be nearing his limit for the number of surprising revelations he can handle in a day- but if they're going to pull this off, they need to get a move on. 

"No, it just wasn't the _plan_. And this is a better one. His lab's anchored out in the harbor, apparently. Merlyn's taking Coulson out there right now. He's leaving the house open. Means you can get your sister out before anyone gets back. You do that, and I can go back up Coulson."

"It's too far to go to get there without backup."

Daryl shrugs. "Look. If you can tell me that your head ain't gonna be halfway to the house the entire time anyway, then fine. But think about it. This is as good an opening as you can hope for." 

"I know," Oliver says, closing his eyes, clearly preparing an argument that he's reluctant to make. "But I'm not just going to _abandon_ the mission."

Daryl's been expecting this. "And I hear ya, but hear me out. We go out there, what happens when this Merlyn guy sees you?" Oliver's frowning; he's already hit on it. "You _know_ he'll attack on sight, and it'll just be that much harder for us to get you, me, Coulson and the samples out of here, much less your sister. Me on the other hand? He don't know me from Adam." 

Oliver's about to argue, but Roy cuts him off. "He's right." 

"Okay, fine," Oliver eventually allows, after considering it for a few seconds. "But it's going to be a pain in the ass getting down to the docks in the first place, and once you do? It's a fucking maze."

"True," Roy says, running a hand through his hair. "The patrols should be out by now, so it's more fun than you thought. But I'll get him down there," Roy cuts in, stepping forward. 

_Crap_ , Daryl thinks. "The patrols?"

"They don't give a shit about strangers," Roy assures him, before turning. "But Oliver, man, you're another story. I mean, they might not be expecting you to be rockin' the grunge look," he says, gesturing at his hair and beard before indicating his clothes. "But they've still got your description posted at every gate."

Apparently it's the last detail Oliver's been needing for his argument, only it's hard to tell if he's deflating with defeat or relief. "Which pretty much makes marching up to the house a non-starter."

Roy shakes his head, already thinking past it. "So you change your clothes- lose the hood, at least. How's this sound- we'll all head up to the gate. My friends on the line, they can get you past any of the others who start looking curious."

It's not surprising, but the question needs to be asked. "You trust them?" 

"Told you already, things are tense." At Daryl's confusion, he rolls his eyes, deliberately dramatic. "You seriously can't believe that everyone's forgotten the fact that Merlyn blew up their _homes_ ," Roy rolls his eyes. "But yeah. There's about a dozen or so I'd trust with my life, and a bunch more who're sympathetic. They're how I get in and out without Merlyn's people knowing." 

Daryl shrugs, but Oliver's not impressed. Roy regards his scowling and smirks. "Look. If you were holding your own daughter hostage, how wild would _you_ be about her boyfriend hanging around?"

\--- 

All told, when Oliver stops to think about it, they're ahead of schedule. They already know where the samples are being kept. According to Daryl- who'd only barely managed to not reprimand him for tuning out the radio chatter- Merlyn's even agreed to hand some over. 

Not that he's got any clue why. The best Oliver can come up with is that Malcolm really _is_ trying to come up with a cure; luring a stranger out to his boat seems an awful long way to go just to kill someone. 

Coulson isn't as easily killed as most people are, anyway, and Merlyn doesn't know it. 

The best plan, he knows, is the plan that adapts. And in this case, it means that instead of spending all day searching warehouses and abandoned subway tunnels, looking for weapons, evading or fighting off anyone and anything they come across just so they can work their way towards where they think the storage tanks _might_ be, he gets to go find his sister. 

It's actually happening. 

He just has to not fuck this up. 

They've been over the plan a few times now, such as it is, and they've identified three different rendezvous points not too far from here. Coulson's truck, the Suburban, and, if shit goes really wrong, the TempStaff office building, three blocks south of here, where Roy's stashed most of the weapons. 

Not all of them, though. The spring on his spare bow, when he pulls it out of the trunk, is brittle, but the arrows haven't warped. None of it will do him much good, though; it's not like he's going to be able to take it with him when he goes through the barricade. He looks at Roy, indicating Daryl with a nod. "Still got anything in a crossbow?"

"Give me a minute," Roy says, glancing from him to Daryl before heading for the stairs. He stops at the base before turning around to look at Daryl. "You got silencers on that?"

Daryl nods, unholsters his sidearm to show him the SHIELD gear- the silencer's built into the gun, wrapping back down along the barrel, widening the profile instead of lengthening it. "Easier draw," Daryl says, when he catches Roy's confusion. 

It seems to be enough, though. "How d'you feel about a trade?" Roy asks Daryl. "I hate to ask, but-"

"Done," Daryl grins, unbuckling his holster and handing it all over. 

Once Roy's gone, Daryl catches Oliver watching him. "What?"

"Nothing," he says. Apparently, his mood's improved enough again that watching Daryl unfasten the belt is more interesting than it might've otherwise been. The way Daryl's grinning isn't hurting much, either. 

Oliver stands up, leaves the arrows where they are, for now. "C'mere," he says, reaching for him, smirking at Daryl's confusion as he steps forward. "Hey," he says, sliding his hands around his waist. "Thanks for this, yeah?"

Daryl blinks down at Oliver's mouth, so Oliver kisses him. 

"Thank me when it's over," Daryl grumbles, but he doesn't pull away. He looks like he's about to say something else, but the there's movement upstairs; the door's opening, and Daryl steps back. Flashes him a grin, though, while he's doing it. 

Roy's coming down the stairs with a crossbow and a girl. She's short, with short black hair, and she's wearing the gray coat he'd spotted earlier. Mostly, she seems more interested in the gun in her hand than she is in anything else. She stops, halfway down the stairs. 

"If it isn't _the_ Oliver Queen." She's older than she'd looked at first glance, but not by much. "Heard a lot about you. I'm Sin."

"That's your name?" Daryl manages, mostly, not to scoff, examining the crossbow as Roy passes it over.

"Hey, apparently yours is _Daryl_ , so..." She smirks, coming _just_ short of sticking her tongue out. "I'm just messin' with ya. Thanks for the gun. It'll be way easier to climb with than _that_ old thing."

"Er, yeah," Daryl says, apparently as confused by her as Oliver is. "Thanks for the crossbow."

Oliver glances at Roy, about to ask whether she'll be joining them, but she doesn't give him the chance. "Well, it was nice to meet you both," she says, turning around to head up again before glancing back over her shoulder. "Oh, and by the way, if either of you get my boy hurt, here, I'm gonna shoot your faces off. Got it?"

"Got it," Oliver says, and Daryl just nods. 

"Okay, Roy, give me two minutes," she says, climbing the stairs, "we'll be good to go."

"Two minutes?" Oliver glances at Roy, as the door closes behind her. "What's in two minutes?"

"Just getting the lookouts into position." He points up, confused, when he catches Oliver looking at him. "Makes it easier to get around the patrols when you're traveling at street level." His tone is patronizing as hell; his wide eyed stare is even worse- like it's killing him to resist the urge to roll his eyes and throw up his hands- but then he relents. "She's going up to signal the route; give the others time to relay into position before we need them there."

"Seriously?"

"Hey, if you'd rather just stumble around like an idiot, running into zombies at every turn, be my guest. Some of us have shit to do."

\--- 

As much as Oliver hates to admit it, Roy's system is a good one. Roy's got a surprising amount of people stationed through town, scattered over rooftops and leaning, briefly, out upper-floor windows. Oliver hasn't figured out their hand gestures quite yet, but Roy can translate easily enough, redirecting their route with the relayed information. It's only about a mile and a half from the club to the barricade, but they're through it more quickly than they would've driving in rush hour traffic, and _far_ more quickly than they would if they'd been having to clear their own path. 

He's got a hundred questions he wants to ask him, about the people here, about how they've managed to organize, about Thea, but they'll have to wait. 

They don't stop moving until Roy pulls up short, just shy of the intersection. Following his eyes up, he sees an old man, sitting in a window, holding up his hand and looking up the block towards one of the gates. After two minutes, still watching, his fingers make the shape of an L, and then a V, scissoring closed. 

"Okay, we're good. Give it another minute, though. Just had to move one of the guards down the line a bit so our guys could get you through."

"How d'you manage that?" Oliver shifts, trying to find some give in his borrowed wool jacket Roy'd found for him a few blocks back. It's too tight in the shoulders, a little short in the arms. They'll be able to see that he's empty-handed from a much greater distance, but all the same, it doesn't change the fact that despite what he's managed to hide, he's practically unarmed. 

"Friend of ours on the next gate down's got something he needs to talk to the guy about," Roy explains. "More importantly, he's got smokes."

The old man in the window looks down at them and nods, his meaning obvious enough. 

"This is your stop," Roy says, stepping into the intersection and pointing up towards the gate. "Next stop, Starling Harbor."

Daryl's following after him, but he drags his feet a bit, stops to squint at him, for a second. He looks _right_ , with a crossbow in his hand again, even if the sight of Oliver's bow, strapped to his pack, is a little jarring. "Good luck," he says. "Don't fuck it up."

"You lose my bow, I'm kicking your ass," Oliver replies, nudging his shoulder on the way past, trying not to grin like an idiot. "See you in a bit, yeah?"

Another two minutes and he's at the gate. Another thirty seconds and he's through it. Betsy, obviously one of Roy's people, is flagging down a kid from up the way, telling Oliver to get going, that they'll get word to Thea to get back to the house. 

Within another two minutes, he's made it past three more people coming from the opposite direction. Their glances are curious, but not suspicious, and they smile blandly enough. He manages to resist the urge to check his six when they pass. 

He's walking up the driveway when the wind in the trees finally gives him the excuse to look up and around, to glance over his shoulder. There's a couple of middle-aged women heading down to the barricades. If they've noticed him at all, they're too embroiled in their conversation to give him any thought. 

The best way to gain entrance to place, without arousing any suspicion, is to march on in like you own the place. 

And it's funny, but as he's twisting the door open and stepping into the house he grew up in, he's never felt so conspicuous in his life. 

\--- 

The entryway is empty, surprisingly enough, but it spares him the effort of having to pretend like he's just some guy, here looking for Malcolm. 

He stops to listen, just to be sure. It has nothing to do with how fucking _thrown_ he is right now. 

Someone's set up a desk in the entryway, like there's supposed to be a receptionist just sitting there. The sign taped to the front of it reads, in thick green scrawl, Please Request Duty Rotation Scheduling Changes 1 Day In Advance. Leave A Note If Nobody's Here. Thanks! There's an arrow drawn, pointing up at a box sitting on the corner of the desk, but it's the writing- here on this weird fucking desk that he's just now realizing had once belonged in his bedroom - that's throwing him. 

He'd recognize Thea's awful handwriting anywhere. 

He'd been standing here, right _here_ , once, and he'd turned at the sound of the creaking stairs. He'd looked up, and she'd been standing there, eyes wide. It was the first time he'd seen her in five years. 

There's no creaking stair behind him now, though; there's just this sign, this misplaced desk, and the sounds of an empty house.

It doesn't stop him from turning around and looking up, though.

\--- 

Once he's up the stairs, he takes pains to move more quietly. It's clear enough that the main floor area's been repurposed as some sort of base of operations. Up here, though?

It's almost like nothing's changed. There aren't any maps tacked on the walls the way there are down in the parlor, no stockpiles of canned goods like there are in the kitchen. There's just the same runner carpet going the length of the hallway, the same pictures on the walls that he hadn't thought about in years. 

He pokes his head into his old bedroom first, because he'd seen the desk downstairs. He knows it's going to be different than he remembers. 

He's not expecting the three bunk beds. It looks like a dorm room, like barracks, but there's no signs that anyone's slept there recently. There are baskets on top of his dresser, filled with hotel toiletries, and the drawers are filled with mostly unopened packages of underwear and socks- men's, women's, and children's. The closet, too, is filled with clean clothes. 

There's a stuffed bear sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom, pinned into place by the shower door, a plastic dinosaur and a few baby toys are gathered down by the drain; he doesn't even notice the bin of cardboard children's books shoved in the corner until he's already leaving. There's another sign on the back of the door. 

_If I haven't said it already, welcome to town! Make yourself at home, take what you need. We've got a lot of great people here in the camp who'll be happy to help you with whatever you need, and we'll get you set up with your own place as soon as we can._

_For now, take it easy- the sink works to clean up in, but the drinking water's in the kitchen. ~~Toilets~~ Outhouses are through the kitchen door, just follow the footpath. _

_Have a good night!_

_-Thea_

This, he thinks, might be why she's sticking around. 

Soon, he'll be able to ask her. 

\--- 

By the time he's made his way through the entire house, Daryl's checked in twice, once to ask if he's made it okay, and then to report that they're getting close to the harbor and will be going quiet. 

"Be careful," Oliver tells him, and almost laughs when Daryl replies, "You too," because he's staring at the dishwasher, just then, and if he turns his head just enough to block out the piles of supplies on the counter- mostly bins of flour and rice and salt- he can almost fool himself into thinking that everything looks the same. That everything looks right.

But when he opens his eyes again, the differences are obvious. Thea's turned the whole place into an intake center, if not a hotel. The master bedroom and two guest rooms had gotten the same redecoration as his own, and the front rooms are clean, but showing wear. Even if nobody's here at the moment, it's seen a lot of use. 

Now that the shock's finally wearing off, he makes his way back up the stairs, to the one room he's deliberately avoided, up to this point. 

Thea's room is the only one that, for the most part, is unchanged. There's still the same posters on the walls, even if everything looks a little more worn in than it used to. She seems to have taken up an interest in sewing and knitting, that definitely hadn't been there before. 

She's adapted, quite well from the looks of it. She's done good. 

Good enough that maybe this hasn't stopped being her home. 

He'd been expecting her to make the best out of a bad situation, but this? This is more than he'd been prepared to expect, by far. 

And she's not expecting him. She hasn't been just sitting around, waiting for him to come back and fuck up her life all over again. 

His eyes keep catching, though, on the heavy lock on her bedroom door; a recent addition It hadn't been latched when he'd come in- there's no getting to it at all, from the outside- and that, more than anything, has his teeth set on edge. 

She's adapted quite well. 

\--- 

Daryl reports in on the radio to say that they're in place, that they've got eyes on the boat, which thankfully, is just tied and anchored of the end of the pier, and not out in the middle of the harbor like Oliver had feared.

"Let me know what changes," he replies, and his voice is too loud for Thea's room.

He's sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at a picture of himself, framed on the corner of her shelf, and not really seeing it. Mostly, he's wondering when it must have been that she'd gotten rid of the two others that used to make up the set. There's no sign of Mom, which he might've expected, given how things played out, and none of Dad, either, which he _should've_ expected.

There's still no picture of Malcolm, though, and honestly, it's a relief. 

He gets up, when he hears the footsteps out in the yard, makes himself move out into the hallway at the first sound of her voice, chattering excitedly. 

This time, he's the one standing at the top of the stairs when she walks through the door.


	33. Chapter 33

"Oliver?"

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Oliver says, and at least it earns a laugh, even if it's half- furious.

"You mean _you've_ got to stop _fucking_ with me like this," she says, only she's rushing towards the stairs, fast enough that he's worried about toppling her on impact. 

"I'm sorry," he says, against the side of her neck. "Fuck, Thea... I thought you were-"

"I know," Thea says, "I know- I tried, Ollie, we looked everywhere-"

"I know. I was looking for you, too. Roy told me everything."

"He's okay?"

"He's good." Oliver laughs, makes himself pull back and grin, because part of him just wants to start bawling, for some reason, but he's not so far gone that he'll let himself start if she's looking at him. "He's impressive. You too, though. I mean, all of _this_?"

She shrugs, smirks up at him. "Always thought it would be cool to live in a hotel. Remember those Eloise books?"

He doesn't, for a few seconds, until suddenly, he does, and he breaks off the hug with a groan. "The ones you made me read to you like a thousand times? No. I've been suppressing the memory." Through the window over her shoulder, he catches sight of someone out in the yard through the thin curtains, and his hackles shoot right back up, where they probably should've been all along. "Who's that?"

"Oh, him? That's Dane. Came back here to grab the roster for tomorrow, but I told him I needed a minute, unless he wanted to see me crying like-" she blinks, rubs a hand over her eyes. "Like I'm managing not to do right now." She purses her lips and smirks at him. "I think I'm getting better at this long-lost reunion thing."

"Well, hopefully, you won't have to do it again. But that's the thing. I-" He breaks off, looking out the window again. Dane's pacing has taken him back out towards the driveway again. 

"You can't stay," she says, and thankfully, she looks resolute. "Malcolm will _kill_ you- " she glances over her shoulder, follows his gaze out the window. "Don't worry- Dane's got my back. He'll let us know if he sees Malcolm or any of his cronies coming."

Oliver nods, focuses on the comms feed- it's quiet, nothing to worry about yet- and follows her towards the living room. "So what's up with Merlyn?"

"He's my father, or so he insists. I know, right? It's not like I can ask mom about it, but that's not the point. Doesn't really matter. But he's _dangerous_. Been playing the sheriff around here. Like bringing about the end of the world wasn't enough, now he's trying to rule it."

"Is it true that he's been looking for a cure?"

She shrugs. "He's got a lab. But honestly? I think he just likes torturing the test subjects. I don't go out there."

"He's okay with that?"

She sighs. "It's complicated. I play along, maybe not as much as I should. But hey, that just makes it more believable, right?" She sits on the arm of the couch; it's dirtier than it used to be. "Look. He doesn't seem to expect anything from me. Hasn't hurt me. Actually _listened_ when I told him that the people that didn't want to join up on this side of the wall weren't the _enemy_. But that doesn't mean that whatever he thinks about _me_ will be enough to stop him from trying to kill _you_." She snorts, shaking her head. "I mean, he's not even trying to _hide_ it, he's got this entire story that you- you and mom, you were the ones who started-"

"I wasn't-"

"I _know_ , Ollie," she sighs again, frustrated, and her eyes flash. "I've _been_ here the entire time. This was the only thing I could think of to do."

"What do you mean?"

"If it comes down to it, and Malcolm comes through that door right now?" She rounds on him, stepping into his space and shoving at his chest. "If he _finds_ you, here, he'll try and kill you. And the only thing I've got on my side is public opinion."

It's a weird statement. "What? I don't-"

" _He's_ the sheriff, he's got everyone armed and ready to fight zombies and patrol the wall, but _I'm_ the one everyone talks to. I'm the one who makes sure there's enough soap and food to go around." She claws her hair out of her face and frowns, losing steam. "If it came down to him dragging your ass out onto the front lawn, and all I'm able to do to stop it is start screaming my lungs out, at least there'll be people who'll hear me."

Oliver's got his arms around her before the first sob breaks out; he doesn't know if it helps, can't even find the words to ask how to _try_.

But then Daryl's voice is in his ear, low and quiet. " _We're here. I think they're below deck but I'm not hearing anything from Coulson_." 

They're running out of time, and there's only one question that he _needs_ to ask. 

"Look, Thea. We're close to finding a cure, and my people are getting what they need for that right now." He pulls out his earpiece to show her, not that it really explains anything. He twists it back into place. "Will you come with me?"

She scowls, glancing up at the maps of town plastered on the walls, and out towards the hallway before looking back at him. One breath in, one out, and she nods. "How much time do I have?"

"Not long."

"My go bag's under my bed," she says, grinning widely at his surprised expression, before getting up and rushing up to her room. He follows part way, waiting in the living room doorway for her to reappear at the top of the stairs. 

She's coming back down less than a minute later, pulling on her gloves, but her eyes, they hang on the desk as she reaches the floor. 

He has to ask, mostly because he's not entirely certain that this is _really happening_.

"Are you sure?"

She sighs heavily, eyes on the desk like she's giving it some serious thought. But then she raises her head to look at him stubbornly. "I'm not waiting another five years, or even another _two_ , on the off chance that I'll find you standing _right there_ some day." She shakes her head, when he doesn't respond, and starts towards the door. "Hold up a sec though," she says, over her shoulder. "Should probably check with Dane to see if the coast is clear, and, well, tell him where I hid the M &Ms. Least I could do for leaving him with the fallout, right?"

"There are worse peace offerings," Oliver shrugs, glancing around, not entirely sure how much of this place he wants to commit to memory, or how much has already been supplanted. 

Daryl's suddenly on the line, voice tight. " _Hey man, we're blown, get the fuck out of there. You got fifteen... ten minutes at most_."

"I'll head your way, soon as we're out of here," he replies, wondering how pissed Thea's going to be to be stashed away again after only a short while. Asking her will have to wait, though, because she's already opening the front door, waving.

"Dane, hey," she says, stepping onto the porch as she looks down towards the wall. Her posture relaxes, and she grins. "Sorry about this, but we've got to leave. Like, now. Any sign of him?" She pulls the door open more completely so Oliver can step through. He's stepping through it and just turning to look when Dane replies. 

"No sign at all, kid."

_No_ , is all Oliver has time to think, before Slade sends Thea crashing back into him. 

"Be a dear, Thea, and get the hell back inside."

\--- 

"Keep Thea safe," Merlyn says, talking into a handheld radio that Daryl should've fucking _noticed_ before now. "I'm on my way."

Daryl waits, glancing at Roy, who's as frozen in place as he is, staring back at him with wide eyes, before edging out past the shipping container to watch Merlyn leading the two goons he'd had standing guard off the edge of the dock. He's out of earshot, but Daryl knows where he's going. Where he _has_ to be going.

He taps his earpiece twice. "Hey man," he tells Oliver. "We're blown, get the fuck out of there, you got fifteen-" Roy's shaking his head, splaying his fingers, "-ten minutes at most." 

Fuck, this isn't good. 

He takes a breath, dropping his pack and grabbing his crossbow. "Keep an eye out, yeah?" 

Roy nods, and now's as good a time as any. Glancing around the corner again, he sees that the coast is clear, so he rushes down to the end of the dock and runs up the ramp. It's not the biggest boat here, but it's not the smallest. It's got a metal hull, though, and right now, he's just hoping that Coulson's radio silence has more to do with interference than anything else. 

The deck is clear, there's nothing in the... steering room, or whatever the fuck it's called. There's just a narrow stairway down, and he hopes like hell he'd counted right, that none of Merlyn's men stayed behind, 'cause the noise he's making is enough to wake the dead. 

And apparently, it has. Weird metal boat acoustics or no, he'd recognize that sound anywhere. 

Whatever's going on down here, it _might_ be a lab. There's cabinets and a microscope, a bunch of other equipment that he can't name. There are long metal rods with claws on the end, similar to the ones the Governor's people used in Woodbury, but there's no sign of-

-there's a metal hatch on the far end of the room, and he can see the movement on the other side of the portal window. Rotted hands, smearing the glass. 

And then, wrenching it away, a wrist that's practically pristine, leading down to fingers that decidedly _aren't_. 

Coulson's face appears in the window just as Daryl reaches the door. He's concentrating, though, and barely glances at Daryl.

"Give me a second," he says, ducking out of view again, disappearing into a struggle that echoes through the hull and the walls. 

"Okay," he says, once everything's gone silent. "That's the last of them. You can open the door, now."

Daryl does, holding his breath as best he can; the smell's _unbearable_. He can't help glancing inside, though. There's at least six of them, lying there. More than one looks like it's had its head bashed in, mostly around the eyes. 

"Well," Coulson shrugs, raising his hands in what might've been a calming gesture, were it not for the blood trying to slide down into his sleeve. "That was unpleasant."

Daryl tears his eyes away, wondering just what the hell it is that he's supposed to be doing here. "You good?"

"I'm filthy," Coulson says, eyebrows quirked in annoyance as he heads for the small sink in the corner. "But unharmed, thanks."

Coulson's bag is lying on the floor, everything's been ripped out of it and scattered on the floor, including the sample box. Daryl's picking it up when Coulson looks over his shoulder at him. 

"Is the seal broken?"

Daryl examines it, turning it over. Something shifts inside, but the plastic tape around the seam's intact. "Nah."

"Good," Coulson says. "Then we got what we came for."

"Easy as that?"

"Easy as that," Coulson agrees, taking it from him and placing it back in his pack. "Would've been easier if he hadn't been tipped off, but on the plus side, he seems to have decided I was nothing more than a diversion. How's Oliver doing?"

There's not much he can say that isn't twisting in his throat. "He's still got a few minutes." 

Coulson nods, and for the first time, something ugly crosses his face. Instead of speaking, he nods once and heads for the stairs. It's not until they're up top again, looking out through the windows back at the shipping containers lining the dockyards, watching for movement, that he says anything more. 

"This wasn't the plan," Coulson says, his tone cold and worse, disappointed, but he forces it down when he looks over at him again. Daryl knows where this is going, nods so neither of them has to say it. This, here, that case in his hand, that's the mission, and it's not done until he's got it back to SHIELD. 

And Coulson knows it as much as Daryl does. It's not even surprising, once they're out on the deck, that he stops to look at him again. "I'm sorry, Daryl. I understand why you guys made the calls you did, but I can't-"

"I know," Daryl says, trying to swallow something down that shouldn't feel so much like betrayal. _He's_ the one who fucked up, after all. "We should get going," Daryl says, trying to swallow something down that shouldn't be betrayal, but is feeling a hell of a lot like it. "I'll get you to your truck. But I'm going back for him."

Coulson says nothing, just nods in vague puzzlement as he catches sight of Roy giving the all-clear as he jumps down off the side of a shipping container. "I thought you might," he says, following Roy's beckoning gestures without comment, as if he's accustomed to doing so. It's more likely that he'd just done a better job tracking what was coming in over the comms than Daryl had. "You should just _go_. I'll be fine."

Daryl falls into step with him, watching Roy move ahead to lead the way. He's watching the tops of the shipping containers, but Coulson doesn't seem interested in waiting for the lookouts. "You sure?"

"He needs your help right now more than I do," Coulson says, though it's obvious he's being charitable, at least until he looks up; then he just looks torn. Another aisle of shipping containers, and they'll have cleared the dockyards, and Daryl has no idea at all what he's supposed to say when they get there. "I'll do what I can to get back," he says, before Daryl can muster up any sort of apology. "Keep your radio on, and if you manage to get them out, stick to what's left of the plan, okay?"

He waits for Daryl to nod, and replies in kind. And then, without warning, Coulson launches himself off the end of the ramp at a dead run. 

It should be terrifying, how fast he's moving. He's gone in a flash.

\--- 

Daryl follows Roy, scrambling over patches of rough terrain when they're not flat-out running; the route they'd taken here had been smoother, but this route seems to be putting them on a more direct trajectory. Daryl would ask, only he doesn't want to risk missing anything. Not that there's anything besides silence on the line. 

Maybe Oliver can't talk. Maybe he can't reach his radio. Without any sort of verbal communication, Daryl can't be sure that he's even still got his earpiece in. 

This was a bad idea. This was _Daryl's_ bad idea- Oliver, he'd been willing to wait until they'd finished the mission; Daryl had been the one to talk him into splitting up. 

If Coulson hadn't already died- if he'd still been capable of being killed- he would've died a few minutes ago. 

He wants to ask Roy if he's got any idea who Merlyn had been talking to over the radio, or how many minutes more it'll take to get to the house, but it doesn't matter. What he _should_ be asking is how long he thinks Oliver can hold out, once Merlyn and his guys _find_ him. But Oliver's not Coulson. He's still _capable_ of being killed. 

And Daryl needs all of his breath to run, anyway.

\--- 

"Dane? What are you-"

"It's good to see you, Oliver," Slade says, ignoring Thea in favor of stepping inside, pushing the door shut behind him. "I have to admit, I'd started to worry that you'd managed to get yourself killed."

"Dane!" Thea's scrambling to her feet; Oliver wants nothing more than to shove her as far away as he possibly can, get her clear, but she's already got a grip on his sleeve and the best he can manage is getting in between them. It also means that he can't get to the knife in his boot, let alone reach up to get on comms. He'll need to, in a minute; he can't let on that he's got it, yet. 

"So thank you," Slade continues, advancing on the two of them, "for allowing me the chance to live up to my end of our little bargain."

" _Dane!_ " Thea's struggling, trying to get around Oliver. "What are you _doing_?"

"Then let her go," Oliver says, the instant Sade’s eye lands on her again. 

"Of course," Slade bows his head; without breaking eye contact, he smiles again. "It brings me no joy, her watching you die."

There's a pause, enough of one that Oliver's able to glance at her; she's looking between the two of them, eyes angry and confused. 

"Thea," he says, calm as he can manage, catching her wrist and squeezing, trying to get her attention to hold on him for more than a second. " _Go_."

"Ollie, _no_ ," she says, shoving away from him. It brings her a few steps closer to the door, but _far_ too close to Slade, and she rounds on him. "We're _friends_ ," she says, her icy tone making it clear that she's speaking in the past tense. " _Tell_ me why you're doing this?"

"You're a good girl, Thea, but you share blood with monsters." Slade bares his teeth in a semblance of a grin. "Take your traitorous brother's advice and walk out that door. I'd rather spare you this, but my patience is wearing thin."

"Fuck you," she says, shoving into his space; Oliver's already dashing forward, trying to catch her when Slade shoves her stumbling- hard- into the closet door. 

He leaves himself just open enough that when Oliver shifts his trajectory, launching himself at him, Slade loses his footing. He recovers fast, though, swinging into the movement and twisting down, planting his elbow sharply enough in Oliver's side that it takes him three stumbling steps to regain his balance. 

"Ollie!" Thea's shouting, but he can't afford to look at her, not with Slade at his back. 

"I would say it's been seven years," Slade says. He's pulling a handgun out from underneath his coat, and for a moment, the dull metal, and it's proximity to Thea, is all he can see. "But it seems your knack for fucking things up beyond repair has extended so far as to _destroy_ the last vestiges of civilization capable of printing a trustworthy calendar."

Oliver goes still, trying to buy time to find an opening. "Slade," he says, more so Thea will know- in case she hasn't caught on- that this man in front of her is a liar. "You know damn well I didn't-"

"You _did_ ," Slade grinds out. "I know everything, kid. If I'd ended you when I'd had the chance, I could've stopped you from bringing hell down on the world."

"He didn't _do_ anything!" Thea shouts, loud and angrily enough that Oliver can't even make out Coulson and Daryl's voices coming through over the radio that same moment. 

"You're right," Slade agrees. "He didn't save Shado, and he could have. He didn't stop Merlyn, and he should have." Oliver steps back as they circle each other, intent on getting in between her and the gun, waiting for an opening that just isn't coming. "You should consider yourself lucky that he's got just enough of a spine to try saving you, but I fear that his tendencies towards abject failure will do you no favors."

Slade's still not leaving him an opening- the second Oliver lunges for him, he'll pull the trigger. But moving slowly catches his attention equally well, and Slade's aim follows him as he sidesteps, drawing the fire away from Thea. 

Instead of making a break for it, though, Thea stares through Slade, her voice tired and annoyed. 

"Who the fuck is Shado?"

Oliver dives forward the instant the gun starts to swing towards her again; it's inelegant, crashing into Slade and grabbing at the front of his open jacket, but it's enough that the shot goes wide as the momentum carries them both to the floor. 

Oliver can just make out Thea, stubborn as she is, finally scrambling away from the wall and running for the front door, but the hard landing's stolen too much of his breath to shout at her when she doesn't step through it, and he's close enough- 

-the fallen gun's almost within reach; he stretches for it, but Slade's leg catches the back of his knee, pressing down and back just enough that Oliver slides across the floor; he's twisted, almost flat on his stomach, and the only reason he's not wide open is that Slade's practically on top of him. 

Slade shifts, getting his shoulder underneath him, and then his elbow. The flare of pain in Oliver's knee, when Slade's knee grinds sideways into it as he scrambles forward, is immobilizing. It's not until Slade's clambering up to his feet again that Oliver manages to get his arms underneath him and shove- hard- back and upwards. 

He's moving quickly enough that the butt of the gun only glances against jaw, instead of cracking him in the side of the skull, but feinting like Slade had managed a hit provides the cover he needs to curl in, slide his fingers down into his boot and _just_ grasp at the handle of the knife there. Dragging it- and the sheath- hard against his leg, the blade slips free, just as the impact of Thea tackling Slade throws him off balance all over again. 

Finally finding his feet, Oliver grabs for Thea but she's already out of reach, tripping over her bag and stumbling to the floor. She's curled in on herself, one arm protecting her face as the other moves underneath, trying to protect her stomach. Her face is still buried underneath her arm when Slade grabs her elbow to flip her over. 

Oliver's close enough, when she squeezes the trigger, that he can't identify the source of the hissing until his eyes start burning, hard. But Thea's not aiming at him; she's pointing the pepper spray blindly in Slade's direction, sending him reeling backwards, clawing to wipe away the burn. 

"Little _bitch_ ," he grits out, swinging the gun around towards her as she scrambles away, wincing, tears running down her face. 

"Dane!"

This time, it's not Thea shouting, it's Malcolm, standing in the doorway.

Oliver's got his borrowed jacket halfway off; manages to get it into Thea's hands so she can wipe off the spray that had reached her skin, but he's being yanked away. 

"Get the fuck away from her, Oliver," Malcolm says, twisting his arm and shoving him to his knees. The kick to Oliver's shoulder lands hard, but Malcolm only barely stumbles as he continues on towards Slade. "I'm going to kill you," he's saying, though Slade's too busy wiping at his face with the inside of his coat to listen. "This _isn't_ what I meant when I told you to keep her _safe!_ "

Oliver can't believe it, but he fucking should have. 

"He's _working_ for you?"

\--- 

Daryl has to remind himself more than once that nobody knows him, here, as he follows Roy to the gate. 

"What's going on?" Roy asks one of the women at the gate- she's in her mid-thirties, maybe, dark hair just starting to go gray. Her mouth settles into a hard line as she shakes her head; it reminds him of Carol. 

"Something's wrong up at the house," she says, stepping back to let them through. "Merlyn's finally cracked. I'm guessing you know something about it?"

"If it's as bad as I think it is," Roy says, "Everything's about to go to hell."

"Had to happen one day," she says, resigned, looking down the barricades. The guard at the next gate down, a hundred yards or so, is gesturing wildly at her. "We got this. Looks like the patrol's on their way back, you should go." 

"Thanks," Daryl says, as he passes by; she nods distractedly, her eyes scanning the treeline. 

"We'll go around back," Roy says, pointing towards a small cluster of outbuildings and trees on the south side of the house. 

It's a good a plan as anything, but that's just the problem. 

It's just sinking in. They don't actually _have_ a plan for this. 

\---

"Working for me?" Malcolm shrugs, grinning tightly as his eyes land, eyes landing on the knife in Oliver's hand. Oliver's eyes are watering too much. "I'm thinking we're going to have to renegotiate his contract."

He nearly misses Malcolm's movement until he's almost too close. Oliver flips his grip on the knife, leads with his fist as he swings low so the blade doesn't get stuck in Malcolm's side as he attacks. 

It doesn't connect, but he'd been counting on Malcolm's feint, swinging up from the elbow as Malcolm shoves his arm down, shaking his grip loose and swinging his head back to connect- _hard_ \- with Malcolm's face. He manages to spin out, jump forward enough to get clear and turn towards him again.

Just in time to see the blood start to pour from Merlyn's nose as he weaves to keep his balance. He's leaving himself wide, and just as Oliver's shifting his weight to pounce, just as he's testing the weight of the blade in his hand, finding its balance, he hears it. 

"Hey, kid." 

Slade's face and eyes red as he looks back at him. And then his eyes move meaningfully towards the base of the stairwell, where Thea's leaning against the bannister, pulling herself up the stairs. 

Slade grins. His arm swings out, he pulls the trigger, and she crumples.


	34. Chapter 34

They're on the side of the house when they hear the gunshot; even muffled through the walls, they're not the only one to hear it. Oliver's not on the line and they can't see anything through the windows from here, but their cover's flimsy anyway. There's shouting from inside and there's voices arguing up around the corner.

"-orders, man. We stay out here and let him finish it."

"Fuck you, pussin' out now, I'm goin-" 

It's the three guards Malcolm'd had with him at the docks, shoving each other on the front steps; they don't see Daryl stepping out, don't see him raising his crossbow. He makes himself wait a second, for Roy to almost have them flanked from the side, gun raised, and then he fires. 

Goes through the back of the smaller one; the look on the other guard's face would be comical, any other day; it does't even change when the bullet catches him in the side of the head. The third's got his back to them, once he's down, there's not enough of his face left to find an expression.

\--- 

Oliver isn't breathing, he's not even _thinking_ , he's just running, waiting for the bullet to catch in him the head and just _not caring_ , because Thea's on the stairs, curling in on herself and there's blood on her shirt but he can't see-

Merlyn's moving too, shouting, but Slade's the only one hovering on the edge of Oliver's vision. There's no turning his head to aim, he just flings the knife. He can't tell if the resulting flinch is an evasion or an impact. There's a crash behind him, louder than the sound of his own knee hitting the step as he falls, planting his elbow next to her shoulder to stop himself. He wedges himself between Thea and the railing, trying to provide some cover, trying to get her to move her hands to _see_ -

She's moving- her chest's rising and falling fast, and her panic's infectious even though she's resisting, still trying to fight.

"Thea, I-" 

_-need to see, need to know, need to stop this_. 

"Ollie?" Her eyes are squeezed shut against the pain, but she twists her head against his arm, into his shoulder. She's gritting her teeth as she speaks. "… hurts"

"Shh," he says, not letting himself look at her face, he can't afford to miss anything, maybe it's just-

-there's blood, soaking through her shirt and around her hands- 

"I know," he says, "let me see." His fingers find hers, underneath the folds of her coat and sweater, soaked already and _too, too warm_. 

She's shaking her head. 

"I got you, okay? Just-" 

He can't look at her face as he pulls away, finally getting both hands free to pull at her clothes- they're too _wet_ , there's too _much_ she's- 

She whines, tensing hard again as finally, he tugs the fabric free. 

The blood's pulsing out of her side, too thick at the source- he shoves the shirt back down against it. Grabs her hand and presses it down again. 

"Hold it down, I know it hurts, just-"

She's nodding, holding her breath because breathing makes her sob. He glances up to find Slade pinning Malcolm, fist swinging down, there's blood there but it's not the blood he cares about, and when he looks down again- when he finally manages to look down at Thea's face, she's trying to look over at them, eyes wet and red, mouth open. 

"Oliver, I'm- you need to-"

"Shh, we're gonna-"

"Run," she says, her voice a whisper, and he's sobbing for air; she needs to save her strength but he can feel her fist pulling at his collar. He needs to get her out of here, he can get her up the stairs, at least, onto a bed, there's towels- but she's shaking her head. "I love you and there's-"

"Thea," he tries to shift to get a hand under her knees, "up the stairs, okay?" She's curling against him, but not moving to help. She's shaking her head, she's clinging tight, and he can't get a grip on her without jostling her terribly and there's a _bullet_ inside her and- 

"No, just go, I can't-" she gasps, there's no breath in her voice at all and her eyes snap wide on his, scared. "Behind-"

"Thea!" Malcolm's voice, shouting and too fucking _close_. 

Oliver's pulled, hard and down. His shin's caught between two rails on the bannister and his knee twists- something's _tearing_ as he lands on his back. A boot catches him in the shoulder, and he flinches at the sound of breaking glass- he can't see the sources but prepares for cuts that don't come. He can't move, he's twisting, trying to grab a hold of something, needs to pull himself up, needs to get free- needs to get _Thea_ \- but his hands are slipping and-

He grabs Malcolm's leg- gets some friction on the material of his trousers, but no grip; his hand's kicked lose twice before Malcolm roars, rounding down on him, shoving him back. 

He wipes his eyes, trying to regain his bearings; across the floor, Slade's dragging himself away. He's holding one arm tight to his chest, and one leg is splayed behind him but Oliver can see the gun, it's under the desk. 

\--- 

The door's locked, but there's movement inside; Daryl can't make out the details through the curtains. He recognizes Merlyn's voice, though, and there's another man crawling on the floor, but it's not Oliver.

"Hey," Roy's already moved down along the house, to the next window; it's larger and lower, and should shatter nicely. and Daryl drops the pack from his shoulders, grabbing Oliver's green leather coat as the rock Roy's selected goes crashing through it. 

Tossing him the coat, he glances back to see that there are others approaching, fast, angry and confused. Roy's already through the window; he's seen them too. 

"There's more out here than there are in here," he shouts, holding his hand out when Daryl hesitates. "Come on!"

He can feel the glass through the leather as he climbs over the sill- the pressure hurts, but he manages to only scrape his leg as he makes it over and inside. Up ahead, past the parlor, or living room, or what the fuck ever, he can see Oliver lying on his back, trying to sit up and fight off Merlyn at the same time, and another man dragging himself towards a desk. He stops to ready another bolt as Roy covers the window, his gun visible to everyone outside, but not taking aim. 

Daryl makes it to the entryway before anyone notices he's there, and any advantage he would've had, he loses when he just stops and _stares_. 

Oliver's extricating himself from the stairs, or he's trying to; his leg's caught up in the banister, and Malcolm's getting up but he's not attacking. He's trying not to stumble as he backsteps towards the desk, but his eyes are locked on the stairs, horrified. 

The man on the floor's reaching for the gun under the desk; Daryl aims the crossbow and fires before he can grab it, shooting him through the shoulder. The sound of the gunshot startles Malcolm, but he only stares through Daryl for an instant before kicking Oliver in the back and striding towards the downed man. 

"You fucking bastard," he says, his voice shaking as he crouches next to him, grabbing his shoulder and flipping him; driving the bolt in deeper. " _Tell_ me why."

The man on the floor's coughing, his body jerks as Merlyn pulls a knife out of him, but he's baring his teeth. They're bloody.  
Neither of them bother to watch Daryl as he crouches to reseat another bolt, pulling the arm back and locking it into place. 

"I made the man a promise."

"You promised _me_ you'd keep her _safe_. Tell me why you _lied_ , and I'll end this quickly."

"...wanted to destroy the man who destroyed the world." The man's words are rough, sputtering as he coughs. "Destroying the man who _ended_ it is just icing on the cake, you sick fuck."

Merlyn's face is monstrous, when his glare lands on Daryl, but it bears no hint of recognition. "Keep an eye on him," he says, either believing him to be someone from the camp or just not giving him that much thought. "Let him die slowly."

He hadn't recognized Daryl. He only barely glances past him, where Roy's shouting at someone out in the yard, before turning away. 

The fucker just thinks they're nobodies, and Daryl would laugh, if Malcolm wasn't walking towards Oliver with a knife in his hand.

Daryl raises his crossbow, aims and shoots. 

When he steps over his body a few seconds later, he can see that it's not a perfect hit. The bolt's sticking out of his cheek; it's missed Malcolm's eye by an inch. 

\--- 

Oliver's got his eyes squeezed shut, and he's swatting Daryl's hands away. " _Thea-_ " 

Daryl gets up, clambering over him to get a better look at the girl on the stairs. Her eyes are closed. Her torso's a fucking mess. 

She's not breathing. There's no pulse. 

Daryl takes a deep breath. The air's burning- stinging- and he doesn't know why. 

Her head's intact. 

"Thea?" Next to him, Oliver's leg's twitching; Daryl can feel him trying to pull his way up the banister steps, and getting Oliver's ankle free is the only thing he can do to help right now. And it's terrible, the way Oliver shouts as it's wrenched free. 

It isn't the thing that's going to hurt him the most. 

\--- 

Daryl's helping him move, he's not-

-he's not helping Thea, there's no- 

She's not- 

Daryl works his ankle free and he wants to shout, wants to _scream_ , but there's no air in his lungs. His shoulders hit the floor and his leg _seizes_ , screaming as loudly as he _can't_. Daryl's shifting, clambering back down next to him, pulling him all the way down.

Pulling him away from her. 

"I'm sorry," Daryl says, but he doesn't back away, doesn't go back to her, not even when Oliver punches him. 

He helps him up- Oliver doesn't want to get up, suddenly, doesn't want to be close enough to see, he _can't_ -

When Oliver looks at him, Daryl's looking at Thea, eyes wide and watchful, and it takes a second for it to sink in. 

He's not waiting for her to open her eyes. 

He's waiting for something _else_ to open them. 

\--- 

Oliver's panting, and it's obvious that his leg's fucked up, but he's still trying to get to his feet, so Daryl catches at his arm, gives him something to lean against. 

Thea- Oliver's sister- isn't moving yet, but she will be. And Oliver's already destroyed. 

Daryl hasn't given much thought to the knife in his belt, but it's pressing against his hip, wedged between him and the stairs. 

"Hey," he says, trying to catch Oliver's attention, but he's looking at her, now, no longer able to stop himself. He's got a hand on her shoulder, and he's probably not hearing a thing; his eyes are shattered and red and his teeth are bared and he's not looking away-

Daryl wants to ask how long it's been, but Oliver sobs when Daryl gets a hand on his back, he's holding on by a thread and if it's severed now, he won't even hear what he _needs_ to hear.

"You don't need to see this," Daryl says, leaning away already so that Oliver can't see the knife on his hip, splaying his hand out against Oliver's back to try giving him something to focus on that isn't- that isn't this. 

He feels the intake of breath; he waits for the sob but he's still not ready to feel it when it comes. 

Oliver's shaking his head, eyes closed.

"I..." His shoulder's are shaking and he's leaning over her, too close if she turns now. "I need-"

Maybe Daryl's just imagining the shift in her shoulder; maybe Oliver's jostled her. Either way, he says nothing as he unsheathes his knife, holding the handle out to him. 

"Fuck," Oliver grits out, leaning forward until his forehead's touching hers- Daryl leans back for better leverage, ready to yank him back at the first signs.

"I'm sorry," Oliver whispers, broken, as he pulls himself up. "I'm sorry and I love you," he touches the side of her face, gingerly turning her head away. "And I-" Another deep breath, shaking on the exhale, and he lines the point of the knife up next to her ear.

Daryl looks away, but he feels Oliver's arm come down, just the same.


	35. Chapter 35

Oliver keeps his eyes closed, breathes, takes inventory. 

His knee is screaming at him; it probably won't take his weight. Daryl's got his crossbow loaded and set, and it won't be enough to stop the two dozen people flooding the entryway should they choose to attack. Roy's at the bottom of the stairs with his hands in the air. His right hand's holding a gun, and he's shouting over the crowd.

These are the things that are safe to think about. 

"Everyone, hey!" Roy shouts. "It's over. Nobody else needs to get killed over this, so everyone, please calm down."

The crowd surges in response, enough that, as Oliver manages to haul himself upright, he sees two men coming to stand in front of the stairs, hands over their holsters. Past them, the crowd is arguing, mostly with each other. Something goes wrong, it'll all go to hell. 

He's the only one they should be pointing their weapons at. He raises his hand; his head is swimming. 

"Hey!" His voice is rougher than he needs it to be, so he tries again. "Hey, everyone! I'll tell you everything, just-" they're tracking blood everywhere, all over the floor, and the panic crashes over him again. His foot's going numb, but it doesn't extend to cover the screaming agony of his knee. 

Daryl shifts until their arms are touching. It takes a few seconds to realize that he's trying to keep him from going down again, trying to keep him from crashing down, crushing Thea's body. He grips the railing as hard as he can, tries to force air into his lungs. The crowd, he realizes, is getting louder again.

"Everyone, may I have your attention please?"

Oliver opens his eyes at the voice. Everyone's turned to look at the door. 

"This is a delicate situation, more serious than you know, and you don't have all the information. My name is Phil Coulson, and I work for SHIELD." Not quite smiling, he holds up his badge. "Those men you're pointing guns at are my agents. I'll be happy to fill in the rest once we're all gathered outside."

At least three people aim at him instead. 

"I'm serious," Coulson says, pointing at Oliver. "That man up there needs medical attention, and his sister, there- your friend- deserves more respect than this. If that's not motivation enough, then allow me to fill you in on the big picture. SHIELD now has the materials necessary to formulate a cure for the virus. We are also in charge of deploying it. Unless you and yours would like to find yourselves at the very bottom of the list, I suggest you back the hell off."

\--- 

Daryl manages to get Oliver down the stairs without sending them both sprawling, but just barely. Oliver's barely conscious, and his eyes are screwed shut. 

His knee's still on the outside of his leg. Getting him across the bloody floor and down onto the couch is a nightmare.

It's not half as bad, though, as watching the doctors- Maureen and Frank- set his knee back into place. They pull on his ankle, push the kneecap in from the side. It takes a long time, and all the while, there's nothing for Daryl to do besides sit there, hovering, blocking his line of sight on the stairs as best he can. He's trying not to look himself, but he can hear them, Roy and the others, moving the bodies out through the front door. 

There's no telling if Oliver can hear them over the agony he's in; it would be better if he'd just pass out, already. Oliver's sweating, his face wrenched shut as he tries not to fight the doctors. He's got one hand twisted in the cuff of Daryl's sleeve, though he doesn't seem to notice it. 

Once it's back in place, Maureen secures two chemical ice packs underneath the bandage on either side of his knee. Daryl watches Oliver try to focus on Frank as he tells him to stay put until he can send someone back with crutches, and to, to stay off of it for as long as he can, afterwards. 

"Even if surgery on the ligaments was an option, you're going to be prone to re-injury." Frank says, clearly noticing the fact that Oliver's attention's drifted off. "I'd suggest finding a brace, at least for the first week, but the only place I can think of is on the other side of the pit, so..."

Daryl nods, because Oliver's just staring past his shoulder at the stairs. It's impossible to tell if his fast breathing's just his body trying to recover, or if he's panicking. The dislocated knee might've been more of a welcome distraction than he'd thought.

"Thanks," he says, because someone should. "We've got it from here."

But honestly, Daryl ain't even fooling himself. He needs to go check on Coulson, though no sounds of rioting are coming through the shattered window. Someone should go check on Roy- if he and Thea had a thing, he's probably not doing too much better than Oliver is right now. 

"Hey," he shifts into his line of sight, resists the urge to check over his shoulder to see if all the bodies are gone yet. Oliver just stares through him, for a moment, and then his eyes shift. They only glance off of him before they're closing. 

"Can you just give me a minute?" He sounds tired, not that Daryl figures that's the extent of it for a second. But he nods. 

"Sure," he says. "I'm going to go see how Coulson's doing and..." Fuck, he doesn't want to be the one bringin' it up, but it ain't like either of them have a real shot at avoiding it. "I'll find out what's happening with the arrangements."

Oliver nods, his brow furrowed over closed eyes.

Daryl waits, a beat, to see if they'll open again, but they don't. 

\---

Daryl skirts along the edge of the entryway, past the streaks of smeared blood, and he's reaching for the door when a noise at the top of the stairs freezes him in place. 

Roy's coming down the stairs, carrying a blanket and some sheets. He doesn't seem to see anything, coming down the stairs, though his attention's caught by the sight of Oliver, on the couch. 

His eyes narrow for the briefest of seconds before his entire face twists. He's almost got it under control when he notices Daryl looking at him. By the time Daryl's following him out onto the front steps, there's no expression left at all. 

The three bodies are lined up by the front door, and maybe it's the sight of them that has Daryl looking instead out past the stone columns bracketing the door, the large circular driveway, and the overgrown but once clearly well-maintained garden. He's standing in the doorway of a fucking castle. He's half expecting to see some Scotland Yard detective climbing out of one of those round-edged cars they always drive on those mystery shows his mom had liked.

Instead, there's Coulson, standing there in the yard, surrounded by dozens of people as he talks, with more people wandering towards him from all angles. They're being peaceful, nobody's biting anyone else, there ain't no geeks here, but the mass of them all still sets him on edge. 

Interrupting probably isn't useful right now, so he turns back to Roy, watches him and a guy Daryl hadn't noticed regarding the bodies and the sheets they're holding, for the moment more puzzled than anything.

"You guys want some help with that?" The trick is, he's learned, is to lay the body down at a diagonal. Gives the one doing the shrouding more material to work with, especially with taller people. He doesn't say any of that, though, when Roy nods. 

The quilt looks like it's handmade, or maybe just expensive, even if it's a little worn. 

The sheets, he doesn't even need to ask, are for the men. 

\--- 

"Everyone's calmed down," Coulson reports, once the crowd's broken off into small groups, scattering in all directions. The people who pass by are talking intently about work rotations and patrols. "They're more worried about keeping the peace than they are about putting everyone on trial."

"How'd you do that?"

Coulson shrugs. "Just told them the truth of what I knew and saw," Coulson says, holding up what looks like a cell phone for Daryl to see. "Played back the relevant audio for what I only overheard, including the feed from the comms system."

"You were recording?"

"You know the black boxes they use in airplanes? This is more or less the the same thing. It's been recording for weeks, now."  
Daryl nods. "So we're good?"

"They're still concerned about Dane, or Slade, or whatever, which I guess makes sense."

"How d'you mean?"

"He's been here for a year, and they've all just found out that he wasn't who he said he was, and that he had ulterior motives for being here."

"I'm still a little bit hazy on that one myself," Daryl admits, crossing his arms and glancing back at the house. Then, because it's not like he's got anyone else to talk to about it, he asks Coulson. "Think I should go ask him about it? Find out why the guy hated him so much?" It's only slightly better than admitting the question- it feels horrible and traitorous- that's taken center stage ever since crossing his mind, _what did he do to deserve it?_

Coulson grimaces. "Now might not be a good time. Maybe, if he brings it up, but I wouldn't push." The searching look he's giving Daryl relents. "Look. Apparently Oliver hasn't seen him in years. For someone to hang on that long, to ingratiate himself with Oliver's family in hopes of doing him harm, getting revenge, or whatever it was? They're not right in the head, and this has more to do with _that_ than it does with anything Oliver might've done in the past."

Daryl moves his hands and shoves them in his pockets. He's not relieved- he's still got too many questions for that- but at least Coulson's not telling him to go in and dredge up what's likely to be a bad, bad story. 

Catching sight of Roy talking with a few people, gesturing towards the river, he changes the subject. "Apparently the family's got a plot up on the hill. I'm supposed to be heading in to talk to Oliver about it, but... you got anything you need to talk to him about first?"

"How is he?"

"He got his knee set, but otherwise..." He shakes his head; it ain't like Coulson can't fill in the blanks. "What kind of time line are we on?"

Coulson seems to consider it. "The way things are going here, honestly, I think they'd all be glad when we're out of their hair. I stashed the samples in the Suburban; I'll go grab it, move it closer so we can leave as soon as everyone's ready."

"What if he's not ready?"

Coulson stops, his shoulders nearly slumping before he looks back at him. "I'll give you guys what time I can, but..."

Daryl nods, mostly to spare him the rest of the sentence. Watches him head down the hill for a moment before turning towards the house. 

Castle or not, he fucking hates this place. 

\---

"Wasn't sure you'd still be here," Daryl says, leaning over the couch and not quite looking at him.

"Can't exactly get very far like this," Oliver grumbles, feeling a little bad for the acid in his voice, but the irritation's something, at least. "Any word on the crutches?"

"Might take a bit," Daryl says, staring down at the bandages around his knee. "Once they're here, though..." He shakes his head. "Fuck, man, you're gonna be hearing it a lot from the people out there, but I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Oliver says, trying to make the words mean something, but they don't patch over much of anything at all, and Daryl looks like he knows it. "Guess that's better than anyone shooting."

He's lying again, but Daryl lets it be. Could be that he's just distracted. 

"Roy says that up on the hill? Your family's got a plot. They went out to get some, ah, shovels. Wanted to clear it with you, first."

"Just her. Not the others."

He's spared from having to say more by the sound of the front door opening, and awkward clattering. "Oliver? Are you still-"

"In here," Oliver says, trying to sit up without jostling his throbbing knee as she comes around the corner. The ice packs aren't working any miracles, but he'd rather not let on. 

"Oh, good." Maureen's got three crutches with her. "I had to estimate, but these are the only one's that look to be in the ballpark. Downside is, if the pair's too short, I've only got the one"

"Thank you." He's just made it to full sitting when Daryl catches his eye. 

"I'll be back in a bit," he says, squinting at him, his mouth a flat pressed line. 

He's going to arrange Thea's burial, and for a stupid second, Oliver hates him for it. He doesn't watch him leave, doesn't want to make the mistake of glancing too hard at the entryway. Maureen's in his space anyway, trying to pull him up to stand on his one good leg. 

The paired crutches are too short, and so is the lone one, at first, but it's adjustable. It only takes a few minutes and Maureen insists on walking with him as he tests it out.

"It's better than nothing, at least, right?"

He manages a shrug with his free shoulder. "Yeah. Thanks. For everything."

"No worries. Frank was right, earlier, though. You need to stay off of it. Give it time to heal. If the stairs are too much, I can go grab you some stuff from upstairs- that couch in the back looks longer, might be more comfortable for the next few nights."

Oliver blinks at her, confused. "I can't stay here."

He hasn't even talked to Coulson yet, and Daryl hasn't said anything, but it's a miracle that Coulson had even come back to diffuse the situation in the first place. They need to get back on the road. 

He needs to not be here any more. 

But fuck, he knows how it is. He straightens up, starts wondering if he can find something to use as a walking stick. Supplies are low everywhere, and if she'd only been able to find three crutches, odds are someone else around here will be needing it. 

"How about this," he says. "I'll use this until I leave, and find something else on the road."

"The hell you will," Maureen shakes her head, smiling as she raises her hands. "I appreciate the thought, but don't worry about it. Besides. That wasn't why I was asking. You really shouldn't be on your feet in the first place. Hiking back over the mountain is just plain _out_."

"For what it's worth, we came in a truck."

"No driving." Behind her, Daryl's coming back in. Nods once, and Oliver doesn't even need to ask what he means. 

"I'll lie down in the back," he says, forcing a grin that he's not really feeling.

He can feel her eyes burning into his back as they head out- through the kitchen instead of out the front. Once they're through the door, Daryl catches up; he's got a handful of white plastic in his hand. 

"Ice packs for the road," he says, shoving one each into the cargo pockets of his pants.

\--- 

It's not far to the family cemetery, but the ground is damp and muddy in places, enough Oliver's crutch keeps sinking in. Daryl stays close and steadies him when it looks like it'll be needed, but it's slow going. 

He's been concentrating enough on not falling on their asses that he doesn't even realize that they've arrived until Oliver's stopping short. 

The hole's not finished, yet, but there's two men digging. Roy's standing a few feet away, hands jammed in his pockets, and only looks at them after a few minutes have passed. 

"There's a lot of rock here," he says, as they stare- at the hole in the ground, at the blanket wrapped figure lying on the tarp nearby. "They're doing what they can, but... Dunno how deep they'll be able to get it." 

Oliver just nods, and Daryl realizes that he doesn't know at all what he's thinking about it. If he's religious at all, or if Daryl should see about finding more people to try and haul the rocks away, or if maybe they've got the time to move the grave elsewhere. There's two trucks, after all. Coulson doesn't need to wait for them. But Oliver manages to shake himself, and looks back at Roy. 

"It's fine," he says. "Thanks for doing this."

Roy hums in response, and for another few minutes, they all just watch the men dig. There's a crowd gathering silently at the edge of the tree line. Past them and through the woods, he catches sight of about a dozen mobile homes and trailer campers, packed closely together; at least one's got a generator going. For the first time since they got here, Daryl thinks, he's seeing kids. There are two brown-haired girls, staring more openly than the others.

He hasn't thought of Lizzie or Mika, or any of the other kids, in a long time. Hasn't even thought to be worried about them. 

They've got Carol, though, looking out for 'em. Rick and Tyreese and the others, too. 

There are about half a dozen recent graves here, unmarked except for a few planters full of dead flowers. The grave they're digging, however, already has a marker, blank and ready. Someone had been ready for this. 

He sidesteps, wondering if this is another weird rich people thing, and immediately wishes he hadn't. The back side of Thea's headstone has Oliver's name on it. 

_Oliver Queen  
1985-2007   
A loving son and brother, whose light was dimmed far too soon._

It's creepy as hell. Oliver and Roy are talking behind him, as if they haven't even noticed. Daryl's halfway to turning around to ask about the markers when he hears what Oliver's saying. 

"Please believe me when I say that I never meant for this to happen. I'm sorry." 

"Me too," Roy replies, sounding more angry than sad. "But what the hell, man? Look, I know this ain't the place, but you gotta tell me. Dane was good people. Hell, he was one of _my_ people. He watched her back the whole time." He's gathered enough steam that he barely needs to pause for air. "So tell me, why is it that, the moment you show up, he-. Why'd he do it?" 

Daryl wants to turn around, wants to tell Roy to back the fuck off. He tells himself that maybe the two of them need to hash this out, but mostly, he's just worried they'll clam up the moment he turns. 

"What the fuck, Roy?" Daryl can hear him sighing from here. "Fine," he says, tone a little too even, like he's talking through clenched teeth. "You want to know? Here it is. He was on the island with me, and things got bad. I fucked up. Couldn't save the woman he loved from being killed." There's a definite bitterness when he continues. "So I guess you and him have _that_ in common, now, too."

This time, Daryl _does_ turn around, placing his feet to move quickly, ready to get between them. But they're not fighting. Roy's staring at Oliver, and Oliver's glaring at the ground, his hand not quite shielding his eyes. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Roy says, glancing over as Daryl takes an abortive step forward. "Oliver, I'm. _Fuck_." 

Oliver nods, dropping his hand and letting out a shaking breath. "Roy, shit, I didn't-"

Daryl watches as Roy steps slowly forward, carefully avoiding the crutch as he puts a hand on Oliver's shoulder. Their hug is stiff and uncoordinated, and it's awkward as hell observing them, honestly. 

It's no better when they both step back. Roy's focused on the grave, and Oliver just looks like he's trying hard to remain upright. Roy's nod could mean anything, as he passes by Daryl, but he finds himself nodding back before moving back into the space Roy's vacating.

"Hey," he says, trying to ignore the combined weight of the eyes burning into his back. He's not sure how close to stand. He doesn't give two shits about any of the people gathered 'round the edges of the cemetery, but doesn't know them, either. His brain keeps prompting him to ask stupid questions. 

Oliver spares him the effort. "Fucking leg," he mutters, shifting his weight and tugging on the crutch in an attempt to free it from the wet grass. 

It's a good enough excuse to stay near, give him something to lean against. 

\---

When the men finish digging, Roy looks back at him for some sort of approval. It's a relief when he doesn't voice it. 

Oliver nods, comes forward a few steps until he's practically standing on top of it, and then his mind blanks. He has no idea what he's doing here, what any of them are doing. But his movement's set up some sort of signal, and the cemetery is starting to silently fill up with people. 

More than one of them have been crying, and he doesn't even know their names. 

Thea would have. 

One of the men, he's about Oliver's age, steps forward. 

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says, shaking his hand. "We all are. Would you like to say some words?"

Oliver just stares at him blankly, unable to find _one_ word to answer him with. But the man just smiles at him, sadly. 

"Would you have any objection if I led some of us in prayer? No pressure. I'm not a... priest, or anything, we don't-"

"It's fine," Oliver manages, hating how relieved he is for the offer- for _something_ that'll move this along. Now that he's standing here, all he wants to do is run and keep running. "Thank you. I'd appreciate it."

Across the grave, two men are picking up the blanket from Thea's room. Roy comes forward to help ease it down into the hole. It's not deep, not even four feet, but Oliver doesn't even know if anyone here cares. 

Everyone steps back, and the man who isn't a priest says a prayer. More than one person in the crowd is mouthing along. Oliver can't even pretend to know the words. All he can do is stare at the blanket in the ground. 

They cover it with dirt, the blanket, and he can't catch his breath. Daryl, thinking he's losing his balance, edges closer, and doesn't move, even when Oliver wishes he would. He'd have an excuse to back away from all of this. 

The blanket is completely covered now, and the crowd's beginning to disperse. More than a few of them- including Coulson, stiff and awkward, and the girl who'd traded her crossbow to Daryl- come up to lob apologies and condolences at him. They don't seem to expect much of a response, even though he's doing his best to remember how to shake hands and nod and say thanks. They all repeat the process less than ten feet away, where Roy's standing, just on the other end of the packed dirt.

There's no blanket anymore, and it hadn't ever been about the fucking blanket in the first place. 

\--- 

Eventually- it feels like hours- hands are shaken and goodbyes are said. Roy promises to keep everyone alive long enough for the cure to be deployed. Oliver promises to consider coming back for a visit, but even Daryl can tell that he's just being polite.

By the time he and Coulson manage to get Oliver situated in the back of the Suburban, the sun's gone down. As they head out of town and up towards the mountain, Coulson turns on the World War II audiobook again, even though it feels like they've already heard this part before. 

It's all the privacy they can afford while they're on the road. Daryl tries to follow Coulson's lead and stares out the windshield, mostly resisting the urge to search the reflections every time he hears a sound coming from the back. 

All he sees is the back of Oliver's pulled up hood, anyway, and shoulders that are curled in too tight. He's makin' himself small, and it's the most terrifying he's ever been.


	36. Chapter 36

The only reason they're crashing at the resort instead of pushing straight through to Cheyenne is because of Oliver's injury, though Coulson doesn't mention it, and Daryl doesn't ask. 

Oliver's angry, and miserable, and he doesn't want to talk. 

He barely eats. He only takes the painkillers once Daryl finally breaks down and asks him, pointedly, if he actually wants to be awake and aware of everything right now. 

Oliver shrugs, pretending not to glance out into the hallway where Coulson's tearing apart the painting in the hallway. "It won't fix anything." 

"Never said it would," Daryl insists, running with it now that he's actually gotten a response. He sits down on the chair next to the one Oliver's propped himself up on. "But one of these and a shot of Jack will make it easier to sleep through the shit." 

\--- 

They're fitting him with a splint they'd made out of towels and parts of a picture frame, but all Oliver can think about is Thea. 

And how he'd given up on her, how he hadn't even looked. 

And how she'd made a place for herself- made a place for a _lot_ of people, and how he'd fucked it all up. 

And how he'll never actually get to speak to her again, and how it's so much worse than just _not knowing_.

Mostly, he thinks about how the knife had felt, crushing through her skull. 

\--- 

Daryl's been thinking about the days after Merle died, trying to remember what, if anything, had helped. 

Getting the fuck away from everyone, mostly. It's all he can come up with. 

But Oliver can't do that, not even with the splint. The only thing Daryl can think of to do, once the painkillers have made Oliver docile enough to withstand the journey to the nearest bed, is just leave him the hell alone. 

"You want, I can crash out 'cross the way," he says, hating how nervous he sounds. He's only barely expecting an answer, and tries not to let his surprise show when Oliver shrugs against the pillow and shakes his head. 

\--- 

Even in sleep, Daryl's so worried he's going to break that he's practically hanging off the opposite side of the bed. It's not until Oliver's pulled away- carefully- that he feels the cool spot on the back of his wrist, where Daryl's hand had been.

He waits, frozen, for him to stir. When he doesn't, he begins to move. Slow, because he has to, because he doesn't want to wake him. Because Daryl sleeps too deeply, and Oliver doesn't want to be talked out of what he's about to do.

\--- 

Daryl waits for a few minutes, once he feels the bed shift. Pretends not to hear to Oliver maneuvering himself out of the bed. He only opens his eyes when Oliver continues out into the hallway instead of turning towards the bathroom. 

Maybe he's just getting some water, or looking for something to eat.

Thing is, though, Oliver probably hadn't noticed that they'd moved most of the supplies out to the truck in preparation for leaving tomorrow morning. 

He forces himself to get up when he hears the rummaging in the kitchen, and listens idly for the sound of Coulson's voice in case he's back inside as he heads down the hallway. 

He's still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he blinks them open to see Oliver, propped up on one crutch against the cooler door trying to maneuver a bolt cutter from god-knows-where into position against the lock. 

There's no food in there, he's about to say. And only then does he remember what actually _is_ in there.

"What the fuck, man?" He rushes over, tries to get next to him as he grabs for the bolt cutters, realizing only too late that Oliver's off balance, that he's losing his footing. The tool, on its way to the floor, crashes sharply into Daryl's knee as he moves, but he manages to grab him and block his sideways trajectory. 

Oliver's arms and shoulders are jerking underneath his hands. He's not fighting him off, though. He's sobbing, and he won't raise his head to look at him. His skin's flushed. He feels hot. 

"Sorry," Oliver says, eventually, as Daryl shifts to steady them both. "Fucked up, I'm sorry."

He nods, like he understands, but he doesn't even know if this is a drug reaction or a fever or what. Oliver's hair's snarled; he avoids running his fingers through it and settles his arms around his shoulders, ignoring the crutch that's digging into his ribs.

He waits until Oliver's breathing's settled, and asks like he's not afraid of the answer. "What's goin' on?" 

Oliver shrugs. He's got one hand on Daryl's collar; his grip loosens slightly as he sighs. "Woke up. Dunno. Needed to... fuck, I don't know."

"Needed to fight something?"

He's about to ask again when Oliver mumbles. "Had to make sure I wouldn't freeze up again." 

Daryl swallows, but his throat's closed off. He glances over Oliver's head, hoping to see Coulson- or _something_ that'll tell him what to do- in the doorway, but it's empty. 

"It's fucking stupid," Oliver shakes his head as he finally looks up. His face is flushed and his eyes are wet and exhausted. "I could've gotten you killed."

"Could've gotten _yourself_ killed," Daryl counters, hoping for a reaction that doesn't come. "You _do_ realize that-" the irritation spikes through him, too sharply to speak until he breathes. "That ain't a viable option, you get that?" He wants to shake Oliver, but a shrug is all he can muster.

It must show on his face, because Oliver winces apologetically, and grabs Daryl's shirt a little tighter. "Yeah. I know."

\--- 

He hasn't heard Diggle's voice in his head in a while, now, but comes back with a vengeance as he limps on his crutch back down the hallway, Daryl trailing half a step behind him like he doesn't trust him not to bolt. 

Diggle's angry. It's to be expected.

_You want to destroy something, fine. You want to fight, I get it. But this isn't the way, Oliver._

Slade's voice, he's not expecting.

_You already killed your sister, kid. What's another few bodies? It's not as if you or your friend have contributed anything worthwhile to this endeavor._

"Shut up," he grinds out, as he goes through the door to stare at a bed he can't remember how to get into.

"Didn't say anything," Daryl says, quietly, behind him. From out in the lobby comes the sound of a door opening. 

"Should be Coulson," he points out, thankful for the distraction. "You want to go check?" Because he doesn't want to be useless. Because it's not just a few more bodies, it's the lives of _everyone, everywhere_ and Coulson's the one who's going to save them all, and Daryl can help him with that. Because he doesn't want Daryl's eyes on him as he struggles to get onto the bed like the fuckup he is. 

\--- 

"How's he doing?" Coulson asks. 

Daryl sighs, suddenly exhausted. There's no point lying, and there's no point explaining; Coulson's already seen the bolt cutters lying on the kitchen floor. 

"Went back to bed. Everything clear outside?"

Coulson nods. "I checked in with Cheyenne- everything's looking good. They relayed me through to Georgia. Your people are fine and Rick wanted to tell you that Michonne has returned and wants to give you a piece of her mind when we check in again tomorrow afternoon."

It feels like it's been days since he's had anything to grin about, and maybe his face is out of practice, because when he attempts one, it breaks down into a yawn. 

\--- 

When Daryl goes back to bed, as far as he can tell, his hand stays on Oliver's chest all night. It doesn't fix anything, but it doesn't break anything worse.

\--- 

The drive is horrible. Bad roads and a snowstorm so heavy they're blinded for the better part of a day. 

Daryl strips and cleans weapons and reminds himself ten times an hour that the truck's not actually burning through fuel reserves, idling the way it is. After a few hours, once the cabin fever's fully set in, he starts the audiobook over again just for the noise. When that gets old- _older_ \- he bickers with Coulson about the windshield blades. Coulson thinks they need replacing, but they're pushing the new snow off just fine. 

Eventually, once he's reported back to Cheyenne, Coulson goes back to standby mode. Just stares through the windshield, unmoving. Like he's had his wires pulled. It's unnerving, for a while, but monotonous. Eventually Daryl catches on to the privacy it's affording him.

Not that he can do anything with it. Oliver's in the back, unconscious. There ain't no point in waking him up to the aches and pains that have to be cutting through the drugs in his system just for the sake of conversation. Leavin' him be is the only mercy he can afford him right now. 

\--- 

For hours, Oliver pretends to sleep, just to avoid having to talk, or having anyone talk to him. There's little by way of distraction; when it happens that even just _thinking_ gets too bad, he digs his fingers into his knee until the pain sears out all thought. 

He's not sure how long it takes to get to Cheyenne. Even when he's awake, he's not really paying attention.

\--- 

"Daryl, hold up a second," Coulson says, easing another crate out to the edge of the truck's trunk, but not picking it up, yet. They're almost finished loading everything into the Behemoth. One more trip after this, maybe two. He hopes like hell he's seen the last of the truck for a while, and he sure as hell ain't eager to be sittin' out here freezin' his ass off any longer. 

"What's up?"

"I didn't want to say anything when we were all trapped in there," he begins, and the anxiety spikes. Daryl knows, almost, what this is about. 

"Just spit it out," he shifts another crate; it's an excuse not to look at him. 

"I know the last few days have been awkward, and that we had to make do with the seating arrangements coming back from California, but there's more space now."

He follows Coulson's gaze to the Behemoth's side door. "Uh huh..."

"Well, not that it's any of my business, mind you, but... you don't have to give him all of it."

Daryl waits for him to say more; instead what he gets is an awkward grimace as Coulson, having apparently decided he's said all he needs to say, hefts his crate and heads inside. 

"Wasn't planning on it," he mutters after him, frowning as he slams the rear hatch shut. It's a lie, but by the time he's climbin' into the Behemoth and sets the last of the gear down, it feels like something's settled. Coulson makes himself scarce almost immediately, heading inside the radio station with the others. It feels deliberate. 

It's not actually a problem, but it's almost funny, the way it takes him a minute to realize it. 

If he's going to run any worthwhile interference between Oliver and the rest of the crew, now's the time to get it sorted out, while Oliver, who's doing what he can to get his few belongings straightened out, is still awake.

"Hey." He grabs Oliver's bow from where it's leaned up against the bunk, and slides it underneath and out of the way. He risks a sideways glance as he does so; Oliver's nodding distractedly, settling on the edge of the bunk. He looks exhausted, for someone who's been so far under the last few days. "You doin' alright? Look like you ain't slept at all."

The grin is thin and fleeting, but it might be a sign that Oliver's startin' to come back to the world. 

"Painkillers haven't worn off," he says, blinking blearily before his attention snaps back to Daryl. "And don't even think of foisting another dose off on me."

"Was mostly so you'd get through the drive okay," Daryl shrugs. "Back of a truck ain't exactly the most comfortable or exciting place to be." At Oliver's nod, he tries his luck. "You hungry at all?" It's been a day and a half since he'd roused him enough to sit up and eat a granola bar. 

Another shrug, down at the leg that's splayed out in front of him, but at least Oliver looks like he's actually giving it some thought. "Honestly? I don't know. Should probably try though, yeah?"

"They're getting' soup going in the station. I can bring you some out in a bit if you're not feeling up to heading over there."

Oliver nods, then his face creases, and then he shakes his head. "No," he twists, trying awkwardly to shove his pack into the corner of his bunk, but it's not moving. "Gonna be cooped up in here the entire trip back. Might as well try getting out for a minute, get it over with." One of the pack's straps is caught on something; getting a closer look, it turns out to be the hinge that folds the bunk back up against the wall. 

"Get what over with?" Daryl leans over and wrestles the strap free, cracking his head on the overhanging bunk in the process. Blinking back tears- he can feel it in his fucking _nose_ \- he shoves the pack where Oliver seems to want it. Daryl's careful, this time, as he twists to sit down. Winds up close enough to Oliver that he feels his shrug more than he sees it. 

"The others are going to want to know what happened. If they're going to be asking questions, I'd rather get it all of of the way while I've still got something resembling an exit strategy, and not while we're all stuck in here."

"Makes sense," he nods, suddenly realizing that they've finished what they were doing, and the only thing left to talk about will probably completely destroy the relative calm they've managed to find. "In the meantime, any of them start getting' to you in here, just. I dunno. Let me know, I'll get rid of 'em for you."

Oliver nods, then grimaces. It takes him almost a full minute to continue. "It'll be fine. You don't gotta worry about it."

He can't tell if Oliver's worried about him fightin' his battles for him, or if he's getting irritated with his presumption. Daryl shrugs, thinks it manages to come across as casual. "Goes for me, too. I start drivin' you nuts, mother henning or whatever, you can tell me to fuck off. No hard feelings, yeah?" Oliver leans sideways against him for a second, and it's weird, how bold and wary it makes him, all at once. "I mean, I might not be able to fuck off any further than over there, but-"

"Daryl," Oliver says, waiting for him to tear his eyes off the bunk he'd been indicating. There are dark circles under his eyes and the smile looks tired, but real. A little more confident. "Fuck off and don't worry about it."

Daryl grins back at him, suddenly remembering that it's been at least two days since either of them have brushed their teeth; Oliver's leaning in anyway, and fuck it, it ain't gonna be perfect, not with everything, but kissin' him is damn nice.

\--- 

Winter's hit hard, but Oliver only notices the cold when someone else opens the door, and it's got to be cabin fever because the fresh air everyone else is complaining about feels fantastic. It's a nice distraction; the ibuprofen doesn't fuck with him the way the hydrocodone had, but it's not as effective. 

For the most part, he just lies around, bored out of his mind, reading or dozing off. Plays a few hands of poker with DeStefano . Drinks tea with Coulson as they try to piece together Merlyn's MO. As far as he can tell, Merlyn had been planning on putting the cure together himself- eventually- but Coulson's not so sure. The uncertainty is frustrating- one more thing he should've managed to figure out by now. He doesn't even realize how angry the conversation's making him until Coulson flat out asks him if he's okay. 

"Just. Don't even know what I'm doing here, is all." 

He bites back the more honest response. He thinks he's getting better at it. Then again, he's had a lot of practice swallowing the urge to scream whenever his brain decides to remind him that he knows how much pressure it takes to put a knife through his sister's skull. 

He spends a lot of time glaring at the bunk above or at the wall. He tries very hard not to take out his bullshit on anyone else, and fails twice at it in two days. Daryl gets the brunt of it.

"I get it," Daryl tells him, forgiving him when he really shouldn't, quiet like they've got any hopes at all of the others not hearing. 

\--- 

They're in Tennessee, stretching their legs near a washed-out bridge while Fury and Coulson try to agree on an alternate route to get them across the Cumberland River , when Daryl spots the first geeks he's seen in a week. 

An entire herd of them, shuffling through the slush towards them. They look haggard, even by geek standards; skin sloughing off in chunks, a lot of them missing limbs, scraping themselves off against the ground as they come closer. But still, there are at least fifty of the damned things. 

Fury, DeStefano and May skirt out around to the east of them, so he follows Ward west, picking off the ones that are still on foot as best he can. He runs out of bolts fairly quickly, but he's got two clips of ammo for the handgun, same as everyone else.

By the time the first one is empty, Coulson's calling out, waving everyone back to the Behemoth. None of the geeks have gotten close enough to be dangerous, but even with the silencers, they'd made enough noise fighting them off that skinning out is their main priority. 

He's heading back to the truck when he spots Oliver leaning against the side of it, bow drawn and arrow nocked, aiming out to the left. Ward is coming back towards them, switching out his clips as Oliver looses the arrow. It's not until Daryl follows the trajectory that he realizes the gelatinous pile of geek Ward's about to step past isn't as dead as it looks. 

Daryl has to jump backwards to avoid May as she runs in the opposite direction.

"Ward!" she shouts, shoving him. He looks more worried about her than he had about the geek or the arrow. "It's a _damned_ lucky thing Oliver's got good aim, or you wouldn't still be alive for me to kill. What the hell _was_ that?"

Once they're moving again, Daryl watches Coulson head back to where Oliver's lowering himself onto his bunk. 

"I know it's not what you set out for, but in case you're still wondering why you're here?" Coulson nods towards the table, where May's crowding a harried Ward into the corner as she rants at him about _paying some fucking attention_. Even Daryl can tell it's a cover for her concern. "That, right there, wouldn't be possible if you weren't."

\--- 

They rotate drivers, and the rest of the journey continues without incident. DeStefano's been on the radio with Coulson, who's been following them in the Suburban for the last two hours. Mostly, they've been playing increasingly ridiculous rounds of "I Spy." Their end game seems to hinge on driving Fury around the bend, and it seems to be working.

But then DeStefano says, loud enough that Oliver can hear her clearly, even with the pillow over his head, "I spy, with my little eye, something that starts with 'p' and ends with 'rison.' We're here, everyone. We made it.

\--- 

Daryl's never been so happy to see the prison in his life. It's still standing. He'd heard the radio check-ins, he'd known everyone was still alive, but it's another thing entirely, seeing it for himself as he holds the door open, steadying Oliver as he awkwardly descends the steps. 

He doesn't know what's on his face; it hasn't occurred to him to think about it until now. 

"Welcome back," Carol says, doing her best to hug him to death. "Both of you." She moves on to Oliver once he's got his crutch under his arm. Thing is, though, the knowing grin she's giving him over his shoulder? Out here, in front of everyone? It doesn't even occur to him not to return it. 

\--- 

Okay, this looks bad. 

It's been a day and a half since he's seen anyone living, though the weather's probably had as much to do with it than anything; he hasn't seen much snow since last week in Virginia, but it's still cold and miserable enough that anyone who's lucked into a safe place to stay isn't leaving it on a whim. 

And if anyone in this 'burb happens to be looking out the window right now, they're backing away, as slowly and quietly as they can. 

There's got to be a hundred walkers coming around the corner up ahead, and old habits- even those that are only _kind_ of his own- die hard. He goes still, scans what he can of the street- the gardening store, the bank- that he can from here, checking for possible collateral damage. It's too late to get out of the street without being spotted. 

His best bet is to stay put, so he does. 

He watches them stagger and jerk as they move. At first, there's just a few on the edge, veering drunkenly this way. There's no clear moment when the herd decides to move towards him. 

This group's newer than the last herd he'd seen. Their legs are still mostly attached, even if the tendons are starting to rot away. 

It's almost hypnotic, watching them; he doesn't go so far as to turn his head, but his eyes don't stop tracking; something's up. He's seen herds before- he knows what the rippling of their motion looks like- and his eyes keep snagging on something, some anomaly- 

- _there_.

Right there, in the middle of the throng. There are three walkers, caught up on something. It happens often enough. They don't have the sense not to walk through fences or clotheslines. They don't have the sense to not follow each other like lemmings. 

They don't usually have the wherewithal to drag each other around on leashes, though, and they don't usually look up to meet his eyes. But the dreadlocked woman with the leash does. There's a hitch in her step, so brief that he might be imagining it, and she continues on, keeping in step with the herd, though it's clear that she knows she's been noticed. Slowly, she and her two zombies begin to hang back and veer towards him.

It's only now that he's noticing the fact that she's carrying a freakin' _katana_. 

"Hey, don't worry. Don't mean you any harm, just passing through." She stares back at him, eyes wide, so he tries to remember how charm goes. It's been a few weeks. "Nice, ah, zombies you've got, here. They housebroken?"

She stares at him for a moment, and then shrugs. "Couldn't help noticing how the herd failed to pay _you_ any mind."

"I didn't move," he says, "so they didn't track me."

"Uh-huh." She knows he's bullshitting her, but she mostly just looks curious. "You got some kind of immunity or something?"

"No. I'm a robot."

She blinks at him, and the katana twitches. "Really," she says, her voice flat.

"Yeah. Life Model Decoy." he says, setting his bow down before grabbing the knife from his belt and holding it out to her, hilt first. "Here, cut me." 

"Cut your _own_ damn self." She leans away from him, probably not wanting to get any of the crazy on her. 

So much for charm. 

Maybe there's a better way. He turns, and pulls down the collar of his shirt so she can see the port on the top of his spine. "Long story short. You ever hear of the Avengers?"

"Sure."

"I'm the robotic clone of the good looking one. Or, well, one of them." 

She _still_ doesn't lower her katana. 

"Seriously, you're just gonna- with the-" he gestures at the katana, which she still hasn't lowered. "Okay. Look. I've got food, and water, which I don't personally need but whatever. I'll give it to you if you can tell me anything about what you've seen up the road."

"Sure," she decides, a little too easily.

"Really?"

"Soon as you tell me what your interest and intentions are. And a name wouldn't hurt."

"Oh yeah. Sorry. Clint. Barton," he offers his hand. "Point 2," he adds, since the cat's already out of the bag. 

"Michonne," she takes his hand, only staring at it a little bit. "I came online a few weeks ago." He'd scared the hell out of Tony Stark's LMD, too, which had almost-but-not-really been worth the existential crisis of discovering that Stark had uploaded his mind and not Natasha's, all because it had never occurred to Stark that The Black Widow could ever die. But it's not relevant now. 

"Took a few days to get my head out of my ass, another few to get enough information to come up with a plan. Long story short, I know my people made a field base down at the prison about an hour south of here. Figured the odds of meeting them on the road were slim, and it made more sense to just get to the base. I'm kind of hoping they can give me something to do."

It's not a lie- if Fury's mission's been a success, odds are there's going to be a _lot_ that needs to be done. It's just not the entire story. And Michonne's looking at him like she knows it. 

"Look," he raises his hands, they're empty. "Okay, this is going to sound nuts."

She laughs. "It's _going_ to?"

Maybe it's because he's talking to a woman who's got her pet zombies and her pet katana out for a walk in a gardening store parking lot, or maybe it's because he hasn't worked it all out in his head and it's not the kind of thing he would've taken to Stark, much less his LMD. Maybe it's just that she's a stranger, but it's surprisingly easy to speak. 

"I'm hoping like hell that the robotic clone of my dead boyfriend hasn't shut off the part of his programming that still gives a damn about me."

She blinks at him. "You can do that?"

"I can. We have limited capabilities-" Stark had called them upgrades- "to reprogram ourselves at will when needed. Filter out distraction on ops, that sort of thing. So... if I find out that he's done so, I will too. It's not like... I mean, I'm only here, like this, _at all_ because I have a skill set some people found useful. My _purpose_ isn't... him, and I don't even know if they're going to make it back to the base, but..."

"It doesn't hurt to try?"

Truth is, it hurts like hell. _Hope's a bitch_. He shrugs, wondering how it is that he can walk halfway across the damned country fighting zombies with no problem, but one conversation can wear him out. "Would be one hell of a silver lining, is all."

"That it would be," she says, smiling as she scans the road. "But hey. I don't know if robots go in for omens or signs, or whatever, but the away team were due back today. Might already be there."

He shrugs. Signs and portents aren't really his forte, hadn't ever been. But as he starts following Michonne and her pets down the road, he ignores the buzzing in his head- he doesn't feel it in his chest anymore, not since he came online- that once upon a time he might've felt in his chest. 

_Okay_ , he thinks. _This looks... okay_.


	37. Epilogue

_One Week Later_

He'd been stupid to assume that just because they'd made it back to the prison, everything would be better. 

The rain's been constant, and maybe it's just that everyone's bored, but Oliver can't remember this many people seeking him or Daryl out. Everyone's asking if he needs anything, making sure the knee brace Hershel had scrounged up is working better than the picture frame splint. It is, but that doesn't mean he wants to _talk_ about it. Or grilling Daryl for details about how the mission had gone, or if they've heard anything, yet, on the satellite phone Coulson had left them.

Daryl, at least, is able to jump back into the duty rotation his second day back. Oliver's probably supposed to consider himself lucky to be assigned the task of taking care of Judith. 

"It'll be a huge help, and if you're stuck sitting around all afternoon anyway..." Beth had been insistent, eyes wide and pleading; they'd caught his reluctance easily enough. "Come on, it's not that bad. You ever take care of kids before?"

 _No_ , he'd almost wanted to say, if only to get rid of her, _we had nannies for that_. He'd never taken care of Thea. Not when she was little, and not when it mattered. And odds were, Beth knew about it, though maybe she didn't. But her face fell all the same, the enthusiasm fading as she tried too late to bury a guilty, sad expression. 

And that, at least, he could fix. "What do you need me to do?"

\--- 

"Michonne says you've been taking care of Lil' Asskicker," Daryl says, taking up his usual spot on the bunk across from him, facing the door because he's assigned himself the task of running interference with all the rubberneckers that walk by. At least it's been a few days; he's not glancing warily at Oliver's knee every five seconds, anymore. He's starting to relax, even if it's only enough to keep watch on the hallway.

"Huh?" Oliver sits up; he'd dozed off reading, and now that he's awake again, he can't even remember which of the dog-eared paperbacks lying on the floor next to him are responsible. "Slow news day."

"Way Michonne says it, it was the most entertaining thing going on all day."

"And the loudest," Oliver admits, rolling his eyes and swinging his legs carefully over the side of the bunk. A few of the paperbacks scatter, but he'll deal with them later. "Babies are not my forte."

Out in the corridor, Glenn and Maggie are talking about something, their voices getting closer until they're passing by. They wave, and honestly, Oliver's getting tired of the way everyone slows their paces, just a bit, whenever they pass by.

It's clear that Daryl's about to speak, but he waits until they hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. "How d'you feel about getting out of here?" He's back to staring at Oliver's knee again.

"What d'you have in mind?"

"Going on watch in a bit, but Tyreese looks like hell. You don't want to, I can get Michonne." His eyes glance off Oliver's, and out towards the corridor. "I mean, the stairs'll be a bitch, but-"

"Sounds great," Oliver says, because he'd rather freeze his ass off than stay here on display, and because there's a part of him that's still stupidly jealous of the way Daryl isn't half as nervous with Michonne as he is with him. And because Daryl grins, relieved, when he says yes. 

It's awkward, getting up the stairs to the tower, and it's awkward, getting situated on the catwalk. But Daryl sits down next to him on the sleeping bag they've dragged out, and for once he's just mindful of the knee, not staring at it like it's going to attack. 

His eyes have long since adjusted to the night when Daryl speaks, and it's a relief when he just comes out with it. "You doin' okay?"

He's sick to death of that question. But it's not as annoying with Daryl's shoulder pressed against his own. 

"Getting there," he eventually decides. Daryl's sharing a cell with him; it's not like he doesn't know about the nightmares. "You?"

"Me?" He doesn't quite tense up. "I'm fine."

Oliver doesn't press it. He knows about Daryl's nightmares, too. Instead, he presses a little closer, because now that there's nobody to see, he's pretty sure he can get away with it. Daryl shifts, but it's just to get an arm around his back. Beyond that, though, Oliver's not sure how far to push it. Or even how to talk about it, honestly. 

It's another minute before he tries. 

"Not sure how to be with you down there," he admits. "With everyone and... everything." Daryl doesn't reply, and Oliver's jolted with the realization that he's on the precipice of fucking things up and that's not, he's decided, what this was supposed to be about. 

"You're one up on me," Daryl replies, nodding down at their feet. "I mostly just been worried about your knee." It's bullshit, and the joke sounds brittle, but it's better than nothing. 

"My knee's fine. Got all the way up here without it giving out, yeah?"

"Carol knows," Daryl admits, deflating. "Pretty sure Glenn does too, at least. Maybe some of the others, I dunno. Haven't exactly, ah. Been askin' around."

"That's cool. Or whatever. Are... is it something we should worry about?" 

The laughter is sudden and sharp. "Christ, Oliver." He sighs, squeezes him briefly and nods out over the fence. "This- this right here- is the closest I've come to even asking someone out on a _date_ in my life. Fucked if I know."

"Date, huh?" He snorts, turning into him to take the sting off, and finds Daryl eyes narrowing into a squint. His answering drawl is exaggerated and drawn out.

"I done brushed my teeth an' errything."

Oliver raises his eyebrows, deliberately goading. Thinks about making a joke about the both of them needing a shave, and abandons it in favor of kissing him. 

\---

_Five Weeks Later_

"Hold on, what was that?" Oliver says, loud enough that Daryl can hear him all the way up here. He leans out over the railing of the watchtower, and Oliver raises his hand, waves him down. "You're sure?"

Daryl steps over the crutch Oliver's left leaning against the bottom of the stairs, and rubs his damply frozen fingers together, trying to dry them off. He shoves his fists into his pockets as he waits.

"That's great," Oliver's nodding. "Good luck, I'll let everyone know... yeah, go ahead and call as soon as you've got something. Otherwise we'll check in next week." It sounds like the check-in's winding down; good timing now that Glenn and Carl are on their way to relieve them. The wind's not so bad, here on the ground, and he's starving.

"Anything?" Glenn asks, as he and Carl reach the stairs.

"Nah, it's dead." 

"Cool. There's soup left but I'd get there quick if you're looking for bread."

"If you can call it that," he hears Carl grumbling, already up and out of sight, but Glenn's hanging back, watching Oliver.

"Yeah, what? Nah, he's- it wasn't... no, not all three. Daryl took out the other one. Totally insane..." He snorts, scratches at his beard. "Hey, any time you want, you know where to find us."

Daryl looks up at the mention of his name; Oliver catches his eye and grins, then nods to Glenn. It's got to be Clint he's talking to, then. Coulson and Fury aren't as big on conversation, and Clint's still trying to fill in the three year gap between his personality being uploaded into the LMD and his LMD waking up. It had been disturbing at first, when he'd showed up their first night back. He'd known who they were, but he hadn't _known_ them. He'd told them later that he'd pieced it together from his former self's field reports and Coulson's uploaded backups. 

Oliver finally signs off, pocketing the phone. Takes a cautious step out of the doorway, conveniently forgetting the crutch that's leaned against the frame again. "Clint wants a rematch," he shrugs. "Guess he came across something about that first walker we all took out. Wanted to know if we all hit the same exact spot."

"Huh." Truth be told, he'd forgotten about it himself, but it comes back to him quickly. "Was only the two. I aimed at the other eye."

"Well, we'll see what happens when they come down. He wants to put money on it."

He shrugs, looks down over the yard, wondering if there'd been anything more substantial to the phone call. There's still frost clinging to some of the shaded areas, but everything else has melted into muck. "Might as well go for three, then. Ain't like cash is good for anything else, right?" He gestures at the stairway as they move to head out. "Crutches, man."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "It's _crutch_." The argument's been ongoing for the last week or so; Oliver insists he's fine, and the truth is, he's going to be limping for life, anyway. Limping without crutches, anywhere that Maggie or Beth might see, though, still ain't an option.

He pretends not to notice Glenn's smirk; he's been doing that a lot lately. Thankfully all he asks is, "Oliver, any news?"

Oliver's grin returns, wedging the crutch under his arm with practiced annoyance. "Initial test results were all positive, they're moving on to phase two."

"Timeline?"

"Unchanged, as far as they can tell. Should be ready to start deployment in two months."

Glenn grins, but it's not as wide as it could be, and Daryl gets it. Ever since the Behemoth had rutted up the yard on its way through the gate, everyone's been hopin' just a little harder than usual. It's been over a month, though, and even though it's all, apparently, still on track, waiting for a miracle isn't getting any easier. 

\--- 

_Three Months Later_

It's not the first drop- tactically, Philadelphia had been easier to hit on the way out, but they've only been in the field for three days when the quinjet touches down in the middle of the prison yard, narrowly missing the garden plot. As soon as Clint's climbing out, he can hear Captain America's announcements on repeat, blaring from somewhere inside the prison. 

_"...cure has been found, and deployment has begun. The first wave of drop zones has been identified and will be listed at the end of this message. If safely possible, get yourselves to one of these locations. If you have radio communications, and are unable to reach any of these locations, report your location and population on any of the frequencies also listed at the end of this message. We will be updating the locations of drop zones as they are added, and setting up ground relays where possible. We _will_ get to you. Also, we are recruiting cured individuals to aid in deployment. Volunteer at your local drop zone. Thank you. Drop locations for this week are Rockford, Illinois. Starling City, California..."_

"I thought Captain America was dead?" Are Oliver's first words, shouted at Phil over the noise of the jet's engines powering down. 

"Found him shacked up in, well, a shack. Up in Canada," Phil replies as they shake hands. Oliver's still limping. Phil had mentioned he probably would be for life. 

"What?"

"He branched out," Clint cuts in. "It's Captain _North_ America, now."

Oliver smirks back at him, shrugging as they shake hands. "Guess I didn't think he'd be the sort to sit something like the last few years out."

"He'd been off the grid," Clint says, glancing at Phil to let him know _yes, I know, we don't talk about HYDRA's involvement and infiltration, don't worry. I'm not turning what's left of the human race against what's left of us_. "Had something important he was working on. His first words to Fury, when he tracked him down, were, "You let me know how throwing a fucking shield at this problem- no pun intended- is going to solve fucking _anything_."

"Quit disillusioning the populace, Barton," Phil mutters, only half feigning his annoyance. Even after everything, Phil still idolizes the man. Misattributing someone else's cursing- in this case, the angry man with the metal arm they'd found Rogers shacked up with- irritates him. 

But it's good to have the occasional reminder that Stark hadn't fucked up his baseline levels of discretion when he'd uploaded him. It's been several months, and there's still a huge gap between his personality upload and his system coming online. He's not pissed at Stark over doing it, any more, but there are days when he realizes what he is, now, and it freaks him the hell out. 

Phil doesn't have the same issues, not as much. But he'd known about his upload. He'd signed up for it. Stark hadn't given Clint the chance to decide. He'd probably still be pissed off about it, only...

He's pretty much immortal, now, compared to before. And he's got Phil. And he gets to help save the fucking world again. 

"Don't worry about it," Rick says, coming down to join them. "Man's got a pass to say whatever he damn well pleases for life, given what we've been hearing on the air lately. Good to see you all, and welcome back."

\--- 

"Michonne!" Clint calls out, falling into step with everyone filing towards the mess hall. "How are ya?"

"Depends on how this works out," she comes over to hug him, smiling wide. "Been thinking about getting a place. Maybe an actual dog. You?"

"Me? I'm awesome. You seen Daryl?"

Michonne's eyebrows raise, surprised, and she glances meaningfully at Oliver and passing the question along. "Well?"

"He'll be here in a minute," Oliver says, stepping aside so more people can filter in past him. "He's setting up the range for later, in case you were still up for parting with some useless money."

"As entertaining as that's sure to be," Phil steps up, ushering them through the entrance, "I'm pretty sure if we don't get started with our _actual_ objectives, and soon, we're going to have a riot on our hands."

It takes everyone a minute to quiet down, and when they do, they're staring at him and Phil. It's strange. It's weird enough knowing that Daryl and Oliver know more about his last few flesh-and-bone months than he himself does, but he's talked to them a few times in the past few months, and they've given him the highlight reel. He'd been too out of it last time he'd stopped in, but it's sinking in, now. He might have known quite a few of these people. 

He's got no idea. 

"All right, people," Rick's shouting. "I know you're all excited, but here's how it's going to go. Actually, I have no idea how it's going to go, so we're going to listen to Agent Coulson, here, and..." He coughs, shakes his head. "And hell, people, everything's about to change."

\--- 

_Six Months Later_

Things are okay. They're not great. But they're getting better. 

It's just that sometimes, they have to remind themselves of that fact. 

"Yeah, we've got visual," Daryl's voice comes over the radio. "The Terminus location's a bust. No survivors."

They'd only had a few communications with the camp since they'd made contact last month. There'd been forty seven people as of last week.

"Any chance they've moved the camp?" Oliver knows that there isn't. Gareth, their contact there, had reported a weakening of defenses on the north side of the rail yard three days ago. But even if they'd left, they would've tried to close the distance between themselves and the people who were bringing them the cure, and Daryl hadn't reported seeing them on the road.

"Not from what we're seeing. Had to clean out at least twenty geeks. Might've been them."

"Shit," Oliver says, swallowing the worry, glancing at the bow leaning up against the wall. It's not the first time this has happened. "Are you guys safe?"

"Far as can be." The frustration in his tone isn't unexpected. Oliver himself had been out on the road in Athens two weeks ago, he'd found the same thing. "We've secured a place to crash for the night; we'll start back at first light. Good news, such as it is- the tracks leading down here still look intact. Already reported in to Hill, but if we're right..."

"We've got a clear line all the way up to Indianapolis." They're on the map, now. Supplies and transport. It's huge. "Stark's got those engines modded up, the camp up there's started shipping and receiving already." A few more months, and a town fifty miles away won't be the three day hike that Daryl and the rest of the crew are going to have to make get get back here. 

Not that it helps them right now. Not that either of them are saying it. 

\--- 

It's been month since he's had nightmare. He doesn't know what it is, exactly, that he dreams about that night, but in the end, they're all the same. Close to safety, just a second too late. 

It's three in the morning, and he's considering making the trek back out to the prison, just to be around people. The house, halfway to Woodbury is great- small, but they're able to get running water twice a week- but it's fucking empty. 

When Daryl comes back three days later, dirty and disheveled and twenty hours away from being able to shower, Oliver pins him against the kitchen countertop, and can't honestly believe that it would ever occur to him to be anywhere else. 

\---

_One Year Later_

It's been two months since he's even seen a geek. 

It'll still take him another two decades to stop expecting it. Now that the school in town's up and running- thanks mostly to Beth and Maggie, Woodbury's filling up with people again. But every time he sees a kid walking home at the end of the day, or bumps into anyone on his way down to the machinist's shop he's been fucking around with, he freezes. 

He's trying to get back to normal. Everyone is. Nobody's there, yet. 

Except maybe Carl. He's seventeen; a kid that age _should_ be arguing with his old man about every damn thing. Today, like yesterday, it's the trains, and how he wants to go up to learn how to repair them. Daryl's got to admit, he ain't too sure if going back for his senior year of high school's the right place for the kid, but he doesn't intend to mention it to the Sheriff any time soon. Ain't his business.

Besides. Elections are coming up, and Rick's taken himself out of the running. Oliver's got a pretty good lead, far as he's heard, but Daryl ain't dumb enough to go fucking that up. 

\---

_Three Years Later_

It's not Woodbury, any more, not since they redrew the lines. And as of today, they've renamed it Hershel. 

Carol, apparently, had both announced the plan, and pushed it through in less than five minutes. 

"It only took so long because so many of his kids, with so many of his personality traits, are on the board," she jokes, leaning over the counter and peering idly into the old, empty holding cells down at the end of the hallway. "Rick and Daryl, on the other hand, they agreed to it before we even sat down to discuss it. Just wanted you to know, Daryl put your vote in for you again, but even if you wanted to change it-"

"I don't." If Daryl'd had any questions about it, he doesn't bother pointing out, he would've called the station, and everyone knows it. It's not like this is the first time, and Carol's visit is barely a formality. She just lives down the street.

"Good. It won't change anything anyway. Just wanted to get your take on it before the word gets out."

\--- 

If anyone asks, he's going to have to admit that Carol stopping by to highlight the fact that everybody assumes the two of them to be on the same page about civic decisions is what brings it all on. 

He's hoping like hell nobody asks. It _sounds_ stupid, when he says it out loud to himself, rehearsing it in his head. It's dumb. It's ridiculous.

But maybe it's kind of important, too. Like it's not a big deal, or doesn't have to be.

They head out through the garage, past their old leather jackets stapled to the wall- Maria Hill had visited, a few years back, and bee horrified to find them, crusted and disgusting, in the hall closet. He reaches for the garage door handle, but Daryl gets there first, rolling his eyes and glaring at his knee as he pulls it closed behind them, sending up plumes of metal and wood dust.

Carl's girlfriend is up on the corner, talking with her friends. They nod at them when they pass, and Oliver can practically hear the countdown before the giggling conversation starts up again. Something about a party down at the prison that he's trying like hell to pretend he doesn't know about. 

"Fucking hell," Daryl mutters to himself, brushing more garage dust out of his hair. "Shit gets everywhere. It's Saturday, right?" It's the only day of the week they don't have running water, because Maria, Tess and Owen actually need a day off once in a while. Daryl laughs, coughing as he shakes his head. "I'm getting soft, man."

He's perfect.

"Whatever. You were the one who had the bright idea to even get started on the cabinets today." 

There's not much else to talk about; it's been a boring weekend. A little quiet, but maybe that's all in Oliver's head. 

Maybe it's just the nerves. 

"Where you wanna go?" Daryl asks, once they get to the main drag. Into town, or out towards the prison. 

"West," Oliver says. "We head into town, I'm gonna have John Debertin hounding me about the deer in his yard again."

"That could be fun. I could go back and grab my bow, take care of 'em and get 'em down to Tyreese. Venison for weeks." They're heading away from town, though. It's only a mile and a half down the footpath.

He's been sitting at a desk all week, and he'd been on the phone half the afternoon, trying to get Roy to talk to an actual engineer about his ground stabilization issues, because while Oliver might know a little about a lot of things, he knows nothing about the geology of artificial sinkholes, or how they react to minor earthquakes. He needs the walk, needs to exercise his leg if he doesn't want it locking up on him. He can't stop his stomach from twisting every time someone passes them by, but it's not the usual hypervigilance, not today. 

It's four in the afternoon, maybe a little past, by the time they arrive. 

The prison's empty- it usually is, now that they've locked the buildings' doors and gotten most basic utilities functioning in town. The gates are all open, but the grounds are still empty. As far as he can tell, nobody's broken in this week. The party he doesn't know anything about won't be happening until well after sunset, and he's hoping he doesn't hear anything, at all, about it, from anyone. 

They head through the gate, wander around the yard a bit. Nobody's pulled a watch rotation there in years. It's ingrained, though, the way they gravitate towards it without thinking. 

And it's a good thing, too, because Oliver can't think over the panic that's crashing into him, closing off his throat. He can't even swallow it down quickly enough to hide it. 

Daryl's looking worried. 

"Your knee?"

He manages a breath, then sinks down on his good one, trying not to wince. Daryl's got his hands on his shoulder, he's leaning down to check him out. When Daryl realizes he's not trying to stand up, he frowns.

This is not the most terrifying thing he's ever done. It shouldn't be. And yet...

"You okay?"

He manages a near laugh, and shrugs. "That depends." 

Daryl just squints at him, irritation just starting to break through. "Depends on what?"

"On how you answer this question. Will you marry me?"

Daryl's eyes go wide as he sets down, more heavily than Oliver can these days, on his knees. For an instant, all Oliver can hear is the metal grid of the catwalk ringing out. 

"Holy shit dude," he mutters, to himself more than anything. "Yeah." He shakes himself, gets his hair out of his eyes, and this time, he says it out loud. "Yes." He presses his forehead against Oliver's, then twists.

Daryl kisses him until the panic banks down into an excited calm that he can't quite contain, and then pulls away, his face serious. 

"On one condition. You either stand up or sit down. I love you, and I'm all for carryin' your ass 'cross the threshold, but I ain't carryin' you all the way back home."

Oliver shifts, sits down, and drags Daryl close again. 

They've only just gotten up here, and he intends on enjoying it for a while.

 

 _The End_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished! Only took me a year (gah!). If you've made it this far, thanks for bearing with me, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)


End file.
